A Legion for Westeros
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: While hunting boar in the Kingswood, Robert Baratheon discovers a lost band of Sell Swords who speak a barely recognizable dialect of Free Cities Valyrian. Befriending them, the King, along with Ser Barristan, returns to their camp; only to discover it is a Castra guarded by an entire Roman Legion. When Robert returns to King's Landing with them, will Westeros ever be the same?
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1 – A Boar, the Stag, and a Host of Eagles**

**Robert (I)**

Robert gazed through the low brush at the bottom of the rise and spotted the warthog eyeing him warily from the entrance to its jealously guarded den. He hefted his boar spear, feeling the solid weight of it in his large hands and smiled to himself. "Watch how I do this Lumpy; spear his chest when he comes charging, then hold him off while he bleeds his life away struggling to get close to me with his sharp tusks." The King laughed. "Not that your puny Lannister arms could hold the beast back. This one would tear you open from your puny cock to yer maidenly tits." Robert laughed again, giddy at his own invincibility. He felt strong, the fiery warmth in his belly whispered it so to him, letting him know he was the mighty stag, tough as when he shattered the damned Targaryen rapist at the Trident.

He picked up a rock and threw it. On a bounce it struck the brute's muzzle. The animal grunted, and scuffled its front hooves in challenge at the large, portly intruder.

"It won't be a minute more before he charges. I'll be thirsty when I'm done Lumpy. Be sure to have another skin of that special wine ready for me."

"Yes your Grace," muttered Robert's squishy noodle of a squire, Lancel Lannister, whose most compelling attribute as being first cousin to Robert's bitch of a wife.

The bear sized man stomped the ground and gave a challenging shout. The boar snorted in return, then in a blink started its rush forward at the two legged challenger to his domain. When scarce a quarter of the distance was covered by the razorback, six deer in obvious flight sprang over the top of the small hill and angled between the two combatants, interrupting their deadly dance.

The boar slowed at the intrusion, but kept coming. The respite allowed Robert to realize his reaction was slow in dropping his spear, but now it lay just right as the monster launched its chest straight on to steel point of his spear. The man grunted from the momentum of two hundred pounds of impact, but never relaxed his grip for an instant. The boar kept fighting forward, desperate to reach and tear at him, 'til its chest pushed up against the lugs at the base of the blade and could no longer advance.

'Gods! It feels grand to be alive!' Robert thought to himself, muscles straining as he smelled the reek of the brute's breath; the scent of salty blood draining out from the puncture in its sweaty hide.

"Uhm, your Grace!" near shouted an agitated Lancel Lannister.

"What is it!?" roared Robert Baratheon, undisputed Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, angry at the unwelcome interruption to his perfect moment. "It better be good, or I'll send you to the Wall regardless of your stinking precious Lannister blood."

"Vi .. vi … visitors your Grace."

The large man gripped his spear tighter, the beast was weakening, but no need to be foolish, before he turned his head to look at his hapless squire. "Where pimple face?!"

Lancel's arm limply rose to point up the small knoll from whence the deer had come. "Th .. there, your Grace."

The Great Baratheon Stag shoved back at the dying beast on his spear; the action of which caused the boar to lose its legs under itself. Robert used the temporary lull in the struggle to pivot himself, as well as the two hundred pounds of near bleed out boar, so his whole body faced toward the top of the rise. He saw six … no seven … no _eight_ men wearing odd garb.

"How dare you intrude on your King!" he thundered up at them. "Explain yourself!"

The words he heard come from their mouths seemed gibberish, but he did shrewdly note that all carried slings in their hands and short blades in their belts.

In a reasonable tone of voice, the barrel chested, and barrel bellied, man commanded, "Lumpy, go find Ser Barristan. They may be bandits."

"Ye .. ye .. yes your Grace," Lancel whispered, promptly backing away at a fast shuffle, before turning and running off through the Kingswood crying "Help! The King! Help! Bandits!"

* * *

**Barristan (I)**

Ser Barristan Selmy heard the frantic calls and was mounted, leading two guides and three guards on horseback, before Lancel ever saw them.

"What is it Lancel!" shouted the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

"There are bandits, come upon the King. He had the boar upon his spear when they appeared. He sent me to get you."

"Where Lancel? Where?"

"Uhm," the yellow haired young man pondered, turning around to survey the general direction from which he'd come running. "I think … maybe that way." And he pointed vaguely back through the trees. "Over the other side of the stream."

Ser Barristan shook his head once in disgust at the boy, then turned to the lead guide. "Follow his tracks back, and at faster than a trot. If a horse falls, ignore it and keep moving, we must protect the King!"

Off the six mounted men went, leaving the foot bound Lancel behind in their dust. Within five minutes he heard voices, at which point Ser Barristan layed spurs to his horse and burst into the lead, drawing his long sword, but for naught.

"Hoy there Ser Barristan!" came the King's jolly voice. "So that worthless Pimple found you after all. Good for him. I often wonder if the fool can even find his own cock when goes to the middens."

The King turned back to the eight men surrounding him and gave a placating gesture. "Now where was I? Oh yes. Now see," and he layed both hands on either arm of the one holding a very bloody boar spear, "when the brute charges you need to get the blade lower." And the King's strength pushed the stranger's arm down enough the spear came to a charge receiving position. "See?" he grunted.

The stranger responded in a language that sounded to Ser Barristan vaguely like something spoken in the Free Cities.

"Thirsty work," uttered the King. "Hey, Polites, pass the wineskin." And the King pantomimed tilting his head back and drinking.

The eight men chuckled and one surrendered the skin to the King; just like the infuriating man to make friends out of potential enemies, thought Barristan as he dismounted while his five companions trotted on to the scene. "I don't think these are common bandits, your Grace."

"Nor I," he responded. "Best I can make out from their twisted tongue there's a large group of them about in the Kingswood. Lost. These are just one of many patrols sent out to find where they are. What say we go and meet them!"

Barristan shook his head in wonder at it all. "Your Grace, is that wise? We don't even know who they are."

"They call themselves 'Ronams,' or some such. Come, it will be fun."

* * *

As the third rest break of the afternoon ended, Ser Barristan mounted his horse heading west, deeper into the Kingswood, away from the Roseroad. He had spent most of the past ten minutes talking with the senior _Miles_ from the strange group of travelers, a smart young man named 'Polites'.

He watched as the King swayed his imposing bulk in the saddle while maneuvering his even more immense destrier toward him. "I think we are no more than an hour's march from their camp," the royal highness declared.

"That is what I understand as well, your Grace."

"What else have you sussed Barristan? You're the only one who seems to make hide or hair of this Free Cities gibberish they speak."

"I think it perhaps close to old Valyrian, though they call it _Greek_; one of many languages they know."

The King laughed. "Perhaps we should drag Pycelle's old carcass away from his tower of birds to translate for us then."

"If my understanding is correct, we may need an army of help."

The King's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Tell me more."

"These men," and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard gestured towards their new companions, "are only hired auxiliaries, light troops, foreigners, hired out to the main army, the _Romans_, at the encampment ahead."

"How many?"

"The unit names are strange and their counting is positively archaic, but I think over five thousand."

Robert Baratheon let out a whistle. "If it's true, that's as big as any Sellsword Company I've heard of, except for those Golden Blackfyre bastards; and more than twice the men I have in the Gold Cloaks."

"Second thoughts about riding into the wolf's lair?"

The King puffed out his chest, and scowled as he responded with a simple, "Bah, I'll bring them to heel," then he rode off to take station a-pace the lead marcher, weaving through the forested terrain.

Ser Barristan's well schooled face revealed nothing, while his mind uttered, 'mindless, drunken ox.'

* * *

**Polites (I)**

A half turmae of Gauls, Lingones on horses, riding close patrol, came upon them. Polites watched the barbarians for a reaction and saw none from either the fat, boar slaying Basileus or the old _Stratigos_ in white. He couldn't decide whether this revealed them as extremely brave or exceptionally foolish. He then wondered if they were not the royalty they claimed to be, though their fine jewelry and quality of weapons marked them as at least wealthy nobles, with a few retainers, still savages, of course.

After brief words with the chief hayseed of the riders, two of the Lingones had almost immediately ridden ahead and soon the echo of the _buccinator_ ringing the calls of 'attention', 'visitors' sounded through the woods.

Polites heard the scuffle of hooves changing pace and turned to watch the old _Stratigos_, currently riding near the spare mount carrying the boar, nudge his horse in Polites' direction. When he arrived near him, the white cloaked man smiled down and asked in Greek worse than a mountain Thracian's, "Your camp? Soon?"

"Yes." 'And praise the gods for that,' he thought, 'I'm getting hungry.' The notion of food made him point back at the spare mount, and ask, "Would you reward a portion of your Basileus' boar to my _Contubernium_ for bringing you to the _castra_?" 'Though the damn Latin _Optio_ commanding the gate will likely demand a share, Roman thieves always taking from civilized man.'

The old warrior clearly didn't understand the question and rattled off something about the Basileus saying the boy not a centaur and can walk home. Polites kept the same stupid smile on his face he used for Latin officers and nodded his head in agreement at whatever the man said, which ended soon enough when they entered the clearing holding the _castra_. The strangers sucked in near simultaneous breaths at seeing it. Now he saw a reaction.

"Two days?" the old _Stratigos_ asked, pointing at the ditch and staked wall before them. "You build all?"

Not wanting to admit how much he tried to shirk each night's fortification work, leaving it to the cobble booted Legionnaires to carry most of that weight, he simply smiled widely and held up a single finger. "One night. Day we march. Night we dig. Every day. Every night," he responded in Greek so simple a baby could understand.

The smile in his soul widened as he heard the _Stratigos_ explain with evident discomfort to the fat man, causing a dyspeptic look to overtake his fleshy face.

* * *

**Robert (II)**

"Truly? They build one of these at the end of every day's march?" asked the King, not bothering to hide the sour look which had replaced his initial expression of shocked surprise.

"In the simplest words, so Polites explained, your Grace," responded the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Robert Baratheon turned his eye to appraise the senior guide of his strange, new companions. He might not understand many of the words these visitors spewed, however he could read the body language of warriors with the best of them. Polites' face hid it well, but he saw the residue of an I'm better than you smirk a clever man at arms might try to conceal from a stupid sergeant. Anger threatened to bubble up within him that any man might think him no better than some dim watch leader. Thankfully the importance of the moment cut through the pleasant wine induced haze he usually allowed himself to wander in and released the man who knew enough about war to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.

"That would be a ball breaker to crack into, wouldn't it Ser Barristan?" called the King.

"Yes, your Grace."

"Probably holds more than five thousand of 'em too. What do you think?"

He watched as Ser Selmy took several moments to scan the two earthen walls they were approaching and make his own expert calculations. "Perhaps as much as twice as many, my King," finally came his answer.

Robert nodded his head grimly in agreement. "I'd need to call out most of the Stormlands Lords to rout these bastards out of their hive."

"And while the host gathered, they would undoubtedly fortify even further," added the Lord Commander.

"Yes, yes they would," he agreed, scanning the walls of the fort and taking notice of workers already improving the strength of the corners. "Busy as bees they are. Very dangerous."

"What shall you do then, your Grace?"

A large smile spread upon Robert's face, "Why find out which flowers they find sweet and offer enough of them to induce the bees out of their hive without getting stung." He then chuckled appreciatively at the wit of his own words.

When they reached the gate in the nearest wall, a man wearing a helmet and upper body armor made of stripped bands of steel stepped forward. Robert heard words exchanged between the gate keeper and Polites in some gobbledygook different than the bastardized Free Cities Valyrian he'd heard earlier. The gate keeper tried his best, as most jumped up over self opinionated junior officers do, to keep a disinterested look on his face, but Robert noted when the word "Rex" was spoken, the man shot him a quick glance and became involved.

Soon the horse escort of about a dozen, and what good would they be in a battle Robert wondered, as they didn't even have stirrups, trailed away from the fort and two sets of eight soldiers, dressed similar to the gate keeper, lined up to escort them inside the fort. The junior turd keeper also seemed to want to dismiss all the slingers who'd first found him with the boar, but Polites kept nodding no and touching himself while repeating several words, including "Greek."

Robert pushed his horse forward, leaned over, and clamped a hand on Polites' shoulder. "The boy comes with us," he declared in a tone of authority while gazing hard at the lead little shit. The gatekeeper's resistance broke apart faster than a fart in the wind, and he gestured for the rearranged group, including Polites, to proceed ahead. Robert refrained from laughing at the man, and simply gave him a warm smile.

Once through the gates, another surprise greeted the King of the Seven Kingdoms. "By the Warrior," Robert breathed aloud. "What unnatural manner of men are these Barristan?" The entire layout of the interior of the fort was in a nearly perfect grid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2 – The Castra**

**Cassius (I)**

Cassius Lartius Mucianus, _Legatus_ of the _Legio Nona Hispana_, calmly looked up from the collapsible writing table in the center of the command tent at the _Miles_ sent as a messenger by the _Optio_ at the southern gate. Or at least what he guessed was the south in this mixed up land.

"And how many others accompany this local _Rex_?" he asked.

"Five sir!"

"Thank you, Marcus Philippus. Return to your duties. Dismissed."

The Legionnaire saluted smartly and spun out of the tent. The lean, middle aged, middle heighted man sitting on a camp chair smiled to himself; it was always smart to know the names of even the least of your men and now, now things were perhaps finally starting to move forward.

"Servilius, please find the _Tribunus_ and ask him to attend me. We are about to have guests."

"Yes sir," responded his _Actarius_, ink stained hand placing down a plume on an even smaller writing table tucked in to a corner of the tent, before standing and exiting out the back.

"Hermann?"

"Yes _Legatus_?" came the familiar accented voice.

"See about refreshments. Watered wine, a few small meats. And get someone to bring five more camp stools."

His personal slave nodded, then rushed his large Germanic bulk off to fulfill his master's wishes.

'Perhaps,' he thought, 'we will now receive an answer as to where the trickster Mercury has sent us, or maybe we are in Dispater's underworld and don't even know it.' He briefly shook his head that such flights of childhood fancy as the Gods should enter his mind at this time. He bravely admitted to himself that 'The Change' had impacted him more than he'd allowed himself to admit. The Legion depended on him to lead them. He must maintain his wits and not just his courage.

Lucius Pomponius Bassus, taller, handsomer, prettier of tongue, and nobler of birth than himself, entered the tent and sketched a brief salute.

"_Legatus_."

"_Tribunus_."

"So we receive a local delegation?"

Cassius nodded. "And one is supposedly some native _Rex_."

"By Jove, answers at last, I hope, even if all he rules is a dung heap and a herd of goats," responded the tall, dark haired man enthusiastically.

"Quite. How's your Homer by the way Lucius Pomponius?"

"Excellent, Cassius Lartius. Why?" he asked a bit perplexed.

"Well apparently our visitors speak no language any of our escort could understand, but one did have a smattering of Greek. One of the Rhodusian slingers is accompanying them here, but your skills as a translator and a diplomat may be necessary to smooth our way forward. Hmmmn?"

The _Tribunus_ nodded his head in understanding, till the look on his face shifted slightly. "A bit of Greek, that's promising at least. Perhaps we are in _Scythia_?" he pondered aloud. "No, no, foolish to guess that. Herodotus never mentioned the existence of such a forest as this in _Scythia_."

The edge of the tent flap turned back and one of the guard's called in, "They're here sir. All on horses, and right giant ones at that."

Cassius stood up from behind his desk. "Let us go greet them in the light of day. Hopefully Hermann will have arranged the appearance of refreshments here by the time we're done. After you _Tribunus_."

* * *

**Barristan (II)**

Two dignified, vigorous appearing men wearing shirts and skirts of scaled armor stepped out of the large tent in the center of the strictly arranged, but apparently still under construction, earthen fortress. They gave a small start looking up at the King and all his horsed companions, though they recovered quickly before starting to speak. Suddenly Ser Barristan realized these Romans had little experience with horses, they were not surprised at the appearance of the riders, but by the size of our mounts. The horses of theirs he had seen were puny in comparison to his own and those had lacked even rudimentary stirrups. Who were these people? Where did they come from they knew so little of what made a knight? For by the encampment, they certainly understood war.

Polites nervously cleared his throat. "Ser Barristan, they welcome you all, but by your armor, my commanders believe you to be the _Basileus_."

"What's the problem?" rumbled the King.

Expecting a royal explosion at the slight, he replied in a neutral sounding voice, "These sirs think I am King."

"What? You? No!" hooted Robert Baratheon with humor instead of anger, and then he started to heartily guffaw.

"Polites, what is their word for King?"

"_Rex_."

Ser Barristan nodded agreeably to the leaders of the Romans and then carefully pointed at the portly, laughing man in hunting gear and uttered the word, "_Rex_." Two sets of eyebrows raised slightly, then very smoothly the two Romans both turned subtly to more fully face the Stag of House Baratheon and sketched him half bows.

The '_Rex'_ smiled widely back at them and gave a bob of the head in acknowledgement of them. "Lets hope they've got something to eat and drink, I'm starved," he announced, right before shifting the mass of his bulk off the saddle to a stirrup and dismounting. Now a foot, the King took several steps to stand in front of the two officers, a head taller than one and positively towering over the other. He smacked his chest hard with a fist and proclaimed, "Robert Baratheon, _Rex_ of the Seven bloody Kingdoms."

The shorter man returned the smile cautiously and said, "Caissus Lartius Mucianus, _Legatus_, _Legio Nona Hispana_."

The taller, and somewhat younger of the two, declared, "Lucius Pomponius Bassus, _Legio Tribunus_, _Senator_, _Roma_."

Opening his fat mouth even wider, The Stag said, "That's a damned mouthful. Welcome to my lands!" And the big oaf proceeded to simultaneously pick both men up and pull them into a hug and shake them like they were his drinking sycophants at some low tavern.

Ser Barristan twitched not at all from the mindless ox's stupid display, but mentally he immediately prepared to pull steel and whirl his mount in defense of his sovereign should the score of Roman guards standing around them take offense. For a second the Roman soldiers tensed, anger flared on the face of the taller one named Lucius, but then the smaller one broke out in laughter, and the moment of danger passed.

"Please have the _Basileus_ put the _Legatus_ down," whispered Polites in deadly earnest.

Ser Barristan cleared his throat loudly. Twice.

"All right, all right, ya nag," responded the Stag, with an aggrieved tone usually reserved for Queen Cersei. The King released his prisoners. The taller one adjusted his scaled shirt, keeping his head down to give himself time to set his face. The _Legatus_, Caissus, immediately reached a hand up and pounded it playfully on the King's chest, all the while laughing as if it was all a big jest. Robert returned the laughter, and smacked the man solidly on the shoulder, which surprisingly did not send him tumbling. As the laughter continued between the two, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard could tell no humor lay in the eyes of the _Legatus_.

Finally the Roman officer stepped back from the slapping and in a loud voice called out, "_Amicitiae_, _vinum_, _consecutus_," and then gestured with an arm towards the wide open flap of the tent.

Polites spoke, "He names you friends and bids you enter for wine."

"Wine, your Grace."

"About bloody time. Come on then."

"Ronquin, Harrion, stay with the horses. Let them examine the saddles and stirrups if they show interest, which I suspect they will." Words which earned a grunt of agreement from the Stag. "And the rest of you, be sure to stay out of the way and quiet in the tent."

Entering the tent, Ser Barristan noted it to be spare of luxury, and as well organized as the rest of the camp.

* * *

**Cassius (II)**

Cassius observed as the large _Rex_, with an enormous stag's head embroidered on the leather jerkin covering his massive chest and belly, authoritatively stomped his way into the Command Tent. The giant of a man snaked a chair away from the now refreshment-laden table with his boot, plunked down his considerable bulk without a worry that the seat would collapse under his girth, and proceeded to pour himself a large goblet of wine.

As the _Tribunus_ passed the _Legatus_, Cassius whispered in his ear, "Lucius Pomponius, do not reveal your Greek, it may gain us an edge if the slinger did not remember to tell them some among us likely speak his tongue." His second in command gave a sharp nod and casually stationed himself near the table in the middle of the tent.

Cassius' worry that his brief sotto voce communiqué might have been overheard and misinterpreted somehow by the ignorant locals was quickly allayed as the barbarian _Rex_ starting braying about something in a loud voice. He turned to look at the Greek auxiliary and wait for the translation process to occur. The _Miles_ face showed discomfort as the older, dignified man in the white cloak relayed the words to him in bastardized Greek.

"Worry not soldier, I will not hold you responsible for whatever the man says. We need as straight a rendering of his words as you can make. From them, perhaps, we will find a way back to the _Mare Nostrum_."

The Greek nodded nervously at him.

"So?"

"Uhm, sir, he says the wine tastes like horse piss, but he's had worse on his way to battle."

Cassius laughed. "Tell him I agree, and that we were on campaign when we suddenly found ourselves here."

As the words were translated, the _Rex_ turned in his seat, still sucking down wine, one hand blindly reaching for the drumsticks on the table, to stare up at the _Legatus_ of the Ninth Spanish Legion, and continued to speak.

"He asks how we arrived here. His lands are large and word of an army's coming would have reached him at his city of _Rex_ _seum Urbis_."

Cassius raised his arms and shoulders to give an exaggerated shrug of bewilderment. "We marched north from _Eboracum_ in _Britannia_ for many days, looking to bring the wild Picts to battle and burn their villages in revenge for their raiding. We made a fortified camp every night. Two mornings ago we awoke, and found ourselves in this forest. All the night's guards were gone; four _Centuria_ - three hundred men - and half our horses too. T'was as if the Gods moved only those of us which slept."

Robert Baratheon grunted as their tale spun out before him. He sucked all the meat off one drumstick and carelessly dropped the remaining bone to the floor before he responded.

"He says we must have powerful magic in our land of _Britannia_. Magic ended in Westeros over one hundred and fifty years ago with … with … uhm, the 'death of the last dragon.'"

Cassius fought to keep the amusement off his face at the ignorance of the barbarians. "Let them know we have little in the way of magic other than praying to the Gods and trying to read portents. Also tell them the name of Westeros is as unknown to us as the constellations we now see in the night's sky. Ask if they have heard of _Britannia_, _Gallia_, _Hispania_, _Africanum_, _Parthicum_, _Sarmatae_, or _Scythia_."

The older man looked at his four companions in the tent while he rattled off the names of places known by the Romans. No. Only dull looks were exchanged, before the man responded to the Greek.

"Ser Barristan asks if we have a map of _Britannia_ or the other places. Perhaps they know them by another name."

Impressed by the insight, Cassius called out, "Servilius, what maps did you tote along with us?"

"Nothing of the Empire _in toto_, _Legatus_, but I should have one of _Britannia_." The slight _Actarius_ put down his quill and notes, and began to sort through a number of scrolls, produced from the compartments atop one side of the small desk.

Servillas let slip a satisfied sound. "I believe this should suffice, _Legatus_," he said, hurrying a partially unrolled _volumen_ to the table. Quickly, platters, goblets, and ewers were pushed aside and the map spread out fully atop the central table. Almost immediately both the _Rex_ and his general spoke the word "Westeros", but with a questioning tone. They pointed at the map, and made gestures as if rearranging parts of the map to point in opposite directions, such as "Dorne" for _Dumnonia_; or to sit in a completely different place as "The Vale" for the lands of the _Silures_, _Demetae_, and _Ordovices_. Southern _Caledonia_ was called "The North", by the natives, though by hand gestures they implied it was much larger than the map indicated.

The Greek spoke up. "They find this map interesting _Legatus_, like a distorted reflection in a badly crafted mirror, but _Britannia_ is not Westeros. And the shape of the lands of the _Frisii_, _Belgica_, _Lugdunensis_, and _Hibernii_ that bound the edges of the map are unknown to them. They fear we must have come from the other side of the world."

A sad but resolute expression pushed itself through Cassius' normal mask for all to see. The oddness of the past two days had already prepared him for this possibility. But now, even the dim hope of a long march home, one worthy of Xenophon, seemed impossible.

The Rhodusian slinger interrupted his musings, "Begging your pardon, _Legatus_, they apologize that their news is not better, but they respectfully wonder what the Legion's intentions might now be since an easy return to our lands does not avail itself."

'To the heart of the matter,' thought Cassius Lartius Mucianus. With his life gone topsy-truvy, he still remembered his duty; he must somehow find a safe haven for his fellow Romans and their loyal allies. "To return home, if possible, but if not, to live as men, in freedom and safety. With food in our stomachs and women at our sides. "

The barbarian _Rex_ nodded as the words were translated to him, and then he replied. "The _Rex_ asks how much food do we have," said the Greek.

"More than a fortnight, but less than a month, barring forage."

The large man's face revealed he obviously did not like that idea. "He wonders whether we have coin to buy food," said Polites.

"Some," answered Cassius. "Ask him whether his lands are large enough to feed all seven thousand of us, or if we need march elsewhere."

The barbarian leader laughed, pointed down at the map of _Britannnia_, and said in his own harsh language, "_Rex_, bloody ALL of Westeros," and then other incomprehensible words.

The Greek translated, "He claims to be _Rex_ over the whole island, Legatus."

"So I gather, _Miles_. Tell me true, you have spent time with the man. Is he a braggart?"

"Undoubtedly _Legatus_, he is a barbarian. But I do not think there is much of the liar to him."

"Yes, I suspect you're right. Ask him whether he has a need for swords."

"Cassius Lartius," whispered the _Tribunus_. "You can't think to have us become mercenaries to this ... man."

"Lucius Pomponius, the thought turns my stomach, but what other reasonable choice do we have? Alone, without supplies, by Jove knows where? Besides, if he proves to only be the lordling of a circle of squalid huts, we can simply crucify him."

"The _Rex_ asks how many soldiers of foot and horse we have, and whether any of them have skills beyond fighting, drinking, and whoring."

Cassius chuckled, then proudly responded, "Tell him we have near seventy five hundred men: nine _cohorts_ of heavy infantry with artillery, four hundred horse archers, six hundred cavalry, four hundred slingers, seven hundred archers, and over a thousand two hundred light infantry. And while each and every one excels at fighting, drinking, and whoring; at least half bring skills at farming, smithing, engineering, shepherding, and most-any other skill he could happen to think of. The _Legion_ meets its own needs."

The large man snorted when the _Legatus_' words were translated to him, but he exchanged a long look with his general, which hardly hid the fact that the offer had at least some appeal.

"_Legatus_, the _Rex_ asks to look at the troops he might want to buy."

"We're not damned slaves," muttered the _Tribunus_.

Cassius turned to a guard stationed at the tent flap, "Junius, find _the_ _Tesserarius_. I'd like him to give our guests a tour of the _castra_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3 – Hercules**

**Polites (II)**

Polites felt his sphincter clench as the ominous Publius Postumius glided as quiet as a lost soul into the tent. None in the ranks dared risk the wrath, nor even the mere displeasure, of the legion's senior sergeant, 'the_'_ _Tesserarius_. The Greek kept from flinching in the instant the veteran's intense gaze passed over him. He noted the only time Publius Postumious paused in his scan of the tent's occupants, before snapping an impeccable salute to the _Legatus_, was a brief moment on Ser Barristan, who returned the _Tesserarius_' assessing stare.

After a brief introduction, the _Legatus_ directed the _Tesserarius_ to give the two barbarians a tour of the encampment to prove the martial bona fides of the Legion. Polites translation of Latin into Greek so that the older warrior might understand, made clear the auxiliary slinger would accompany the group as it walked through the _castra_. Publius Postumius eyes fleetingly glanced at the Tribunus before his cool tenor spoke, "_Ita vero_," and he saluted his acceptance of the orders.

"Polites," came the soft, dangerous voice; causing the Greek to quiver inside for he'd never guessed the _Tesserarius_ knew his name. "Please ask our honored guests to follow me. Coming here I heard the curses of Titus Sidonius rising over the din of typical stupidity. If we are quick about it, we may still find the _Pilus Posterior_ drilling the Second _Cohors_' _centuria_ against each other." Without waiting for a response, the _Tesserarius_ strode out of the tent.

The jowly Stag looked unhappy for a moment, then smiled, picked up a nearly full wine ewer, and passed out of the tent too. As the group marched determinedly down a tent lined avenue toward a gate, the _Basileus_ and the _Stratigos_ pointed at many different things and murmured to each other in their strange tongue. Occasionally, the old warrior posed a question in childish, Thracian inbred sounding Greek. "Swords all short" "Armor, no one piece, no arms." "No cart for food." When Polites tried to pass on the words to Publius Postumius, the man kept marching and tonelessly answered, "Later."

The _contuberniums_ guarding the gate, promptly swung it open on the _Tesserarius'_ approach and revealed three _centuria_, two hundred some odd men, sitting on the ground watching while two other centuria, each in ranked lines, hammered away at each other in earnest practice with scutum and point covered spatha. The gravelly voice of the middle aged _Pilus Posterior _bellowed a roll call of names; those struck too well by their opponent to continue in line.

Polites, having seen the bloody devastation of the disciplined, relentless thrusts of uncovered Latin blade points from behind the shield wall, silently praised Zeus Pater yet again for sparing him the fate of many a Pict or rebellious Brigantes. However such sage observation did not seem to enlighten the _Basileus_, who seemed more interested in guzzling wine straight from the ewer and laughing or making loud comments as more and more Legionnaires succumbed to the remorseless referee calls of Titus Sidonius.

Eventually, heads began to turn and look for the source of the overly loud rude cries in an unknown language. Polites wisely edged off to the side, away from any rising tide of anger that might swell up against the barbarians from either Publius Postumius or the entire Second _Cohors_.

* * *

**Robert (III)**

"Ho!" laughed Robert, before he shouted, "There's another'd be trying to hold his guts back."

"Most strike cunningly from behind their large shields," opined Ser Barristan.

"And for so many being on the runty side, they don't appear tire much, do they? OH! Well struck Ser. Ha! You'd have given him a second smile below his mouth."

"They maintain tight formation. See how quickly one from the back line steps into the place of a fallen comrade."

"Aye. Chew up and spit out any foot levies I ever saw. Awww! C'mon ya bastard, you had him! You had him, but you hesitated. And now you're dead, see?! Fool!" hawked Robert disparagingly at the man-at-arms who's actions he'd just been following.

"But will they stand a charge, your Grace?"

"They'd need spears. Do you see any? Hey! They're stopping. Ask Polites what goes," the King commanded.

Ser Barristan questioned a now nervous translator, who appeared to tremble at the stern glare of the _Tesserarius_ lanced their way.

"He says they think we do not take them seriously."

"What!? Noooo! They were as entertaining as near any melee I ever watched. Top notch stuff."

As words were exchanged in one language, then another, Robert began to smell the mood of the troops gathered on the field and realized he might have put his foot in it somehow. He couldn't understand how though, he was the bluff, gregarious type that men-at-arms adored. 'Damned touchy pricks,' he thought.

His ears pricked up as more confusing gobbledygook sounding words were exchanged; then when the salt and pepper haired fellow who'd been judging the melee cried out "_Gladiatores_?" in a tone of outrage, many of the soldiers began to shout "_Fellator_!"

"Calm this all down Barristan."

"I'm trying your Grace."

Now the tough looking bastard who'd walked them out of the camp started speaking, causing the older, graying captain to nod his head, with a smug grin, in agreement.

"Well?" Robert rumbled impatiently.

"The, uhm, _cohors_, would be honored if the Great Lord would like to fight one of their groups of eight, a, uhm, _contubernium_."

Robert's eyes narrowed, he definitely had put his foot in it, and they wanted him to pay for it, in bruises at the least. "Well I can't avoid this trap without looking the craven fool, can I?"

"No, your Grace," agreed Ser Barristan unhappily.

Robert shrugged and then grinned broadly. "So I shall pound on them. Ask where I can find a hammer and if I get any helpers."

More incomprehensible consulting followed until the senior leader, Titus Sidonius, shouted something out and his entire band of warriors cheered.

"You may take two men with you, your Grace. They say that three of our kind will likely use as much space as eight of them shield to shield."

Robert's smile curled more wolf-like. "Better take your pretty white cape off Ser Barristan."

"Ah, unfortunately I am not permitted, your Grace."

"What?!"

"The _Tesserarius_ asked me to judge, to ensure the fairness of the melee."

At the news, Robert's turned to gaze at Publius Postumius and saw a wolfish grin staring back at him.

"He says they have no war hammers, but you may use his _spatha_ if you so choose."

"Bah! Colin, Alek!" the King shouted at the more martial of his accompanying retainers, "see if they can guard the edges of your blades. I'll go find my own damn weapons." he then wandered off, examining a few nearby carts and barrels holding entrenching tools. He soon came back carrying nothing more than a mattock and a shovel.

"Tell the poxy bastards I'm ready when they are!" Robert hollered with a hint of amusement in his voice.

* * *

**Barristan (III)**

"Either side of me," commanded the King to his two retainers. "Stop the ends from getting round behind us, and I'll crack the middle like a walnut."

"Your Grace?"

"What?" he growled at the Lord Commander.

"This is no more than a friendly Tourney bout, please don't kill any of them," advised Ser Barristan.

"Of course not, do you take me for a fool!?"

"No, your Grace."

Eight Romans, each wearing scaled armor and carrying a large shield, stood together tightly in a short line. The several hundred other troops of their _cohors_ stood well back in a hodgepodge of lines that took the general shape of a 'U' so that all could watch the coming confrontation while giving plenty of space for the mock combat.

As King Robert approached the formation of overlapping shields, he called out, "What's the damn signal to start?"

"Polites, how does this begin?" the Lord Commander asked in Pentos accented Free Cities Valyrian.

The translator pointed at a man with a horn and said, "_Buccinator_."

"When the horn blows, your Grace," replied Ser Barristan. "Is the … _contubernium_? … ready, Polites?" The question prompted a brief conversation between the slinger, the dangerous _Tesserarius_, the middle aged _Pilus Posterior,_and the horn blower.

The _Tesserarius_, Publius Postumius, stepped next to Ser Barristan, and in Free Cities Valyrian even more atrocious than Polites, said with a grin, "Men ready. Raise hand, drop hand, horn blows, fight."

Ser Barristan hid his surprise at the _Tesserarius_ revealing his language ability and immediately decided to see what else the light moving, steady armed, ice gray eyed Roman might disclose. "Who wins?"

"Rex," he replied, but wobbled a hand back and forth to show he did not necessarily think it a certainty. "Warrior once. True battle, fat man dead. _centuria_ fight so," and Publius now gestured with both hands to represent lines of men. "Kill one, two, three, four; then …" and he poked with his fingers to show multiple stabs coming from every direction. "Go, start."

The Lord Commander nodded his head and raised a hand; as it started to drop, the horn pealed and Robert Baratheon rushed straight at the middle of the line of Romans. _Scutas_ and _spathas_ raised in response, and the line of eight took a step forward too, but the Stag pulled up just short of them and swung his shovel along their front, causing loud clangs as it bounced across shield faces and touched blades.

The _Tesserarius_ distracted Ser Barristan by tapping on his breast plate. "All one?"

"Yes," he answered, trying to keep his attention fully on the action he had been 'volunteered' to judge.

Tap, tap, tap. "Back metal, yes?"

Ser Barristan absent mindedly lifted his white cape enough to reveal the full length back plate to the Roman.

While the Stag danced back and forth, trying to draw a soldier from out behind the short shield wall; his retainers took defensive poses on either side of their King, giving him ample space to work, while only half heartedly keeping the soldiers in front of them engaged by rather lack luster feints and the occasional shout.

"Fight horse? Not foot?"

"Horse."

"How? Sword? Arrow?"

In unison the entire line of eight took another step forward, each shield edge staying in near contact with its neighbor, swords licking out, looking to take a bite. The King hopped back, but never took his eyes off them, searching for any sort of gap to open for even a second that he could exploit.

"Yes, yes; and lance."

"Lance?"

"Long spear," and Ser Barristan quickly posed how he would hold one at the charge.

He knew the instant the Stag finished assessing the Roman eight's reaction speeds; and the King proved Ser Barristan correct by almost immediately taking an exaggerated half step to the right toward an extended _spatha_ and then leaping to his left while whirling the mattock in a powerful arc over his head.

Thunk. The dull blade of the field tool crashed with enormous force on the upper third of a shield, puncturing it and causing the man-at-arms behind it to stagger from the impact. Instantly the soldier to the King's left sprang out his stabbing blade, but the large man was prepared and deflected the attack with an already positioned shovel; all the while with a massive arm pulling back on the mattock, dragging the soldier strapped to the caught shield out of line from his brethren. Over the top of the shield the shovel swung next and solidly tapped the man on his helmet. Tang!

"Out!" cried Ser Barristan; and promptly, if unhappily, the struck soldier dropped to the ground, taking on the role of a battlefield casualty.

The remaining 'alive' Romans immediately shuffled to close the space left by their fallen comrade. Encumbered by a large shield stuck on his mattock, which took several titanic shakes to dislodge, the King could not take advantage of the hole he had made, and roared with frustration at his two retainers, "Come on then! Get in on them!" A shout which did spur Colin Roone and Alek Estren to more vigorous efforts, at least until the Romans took another unified step forward.

"Us swords. Enemies, you many?"

"No enemies."

Part of Ser Barristan's brain searched for easy words to explain why the King wanted to hire them, besides their being a shiny new toy that attracted his Grace's juvenile like attention. Finally he dredged up a single word common to the speech of the Free Cities, "Politics." The tone of the grunt Publius Postumius gave contained all the meaning the Lord Commander needed to know that the Roman understood that unsavory business too. "Out!" he called, after the Stag again used a hammer of an overhand mattock blow to crumple a second Roman's shield and render him vulnerable to the swipe of the shovel.

"Alek, out!" The retainer had come too close to the shield wall as it shuffled forward to try and catch the King as he dislodged the stuck shield from the mattock, and a spatha had snaked out to take the young aide in the fleshy part of a thigh.

"I can still fight," the third son of the cadet line of House Roone countered.

"Out!" Ser Barristan repeated, adding a touch more authority to his voice, causing the man to simply sit back with ill grace on his arse. The _Tesserarius_ clapped Ser Barristan encouragingly on the shoulder for not showing favoritism.

The far man on the King's now unguarded side started to edge ahead of the Roman line, waiting for a moment he could swing in on an exposed flank; and the fat Stag purposefully pretended to ignore the threat until the man finally choose to rush in. The sweaty, panting, out of shape Stag surprisingly still had the speed to greet the charge with a low, backhanded swipe of the shovel which took the man's feet from under him. The King paused, ever so briefly, most likely listening for an 'out' call that Ser Barristan judged he could not fairly give. And when it did not come, he unwisely turned his considerable bulk enough to swing the mattock, none too gently, upon the fallen warrior's chest.

"Out!" Ser Barristan yelled, even as the remaining five Romans now rushed at the out of position Stag and his remaining retainer.

Colin acquitted himself adequately, stepping forward to impede the attack, even 'killing' one, before taking a 'fatal' blow himself. "Out!" "Colin, Out!"

Off balance and momentum working against him, Robert Baratheon's still immense strength was such he pulled back on the mattock and unleashed a walloping shot that took the nearest charging Roman on his sword arm. The loud 'crack' of a breaking bone was heard right before the impact flung the soldier into the man next to him, causing both to drop to the ground. "Out!"

But the last unengaged soldier had a clear shot at the twisted around King and his point capped _spatha_ poked hard into the Stag's kettledrum of a belly. "Out, your Grace!"

"Bugger!" the Stag yelled mightily, tossed his two improvised weapons in the air, and dramatically fell on the ground next to the man who's feet he'd taken out only seconds earlier. A roar of approval shot out of the gathered cohort at their comrades' triumph. The 'victor' came and stood over the now foolishly grinning fallen King.

"_Fellator_ am I?" shouted Robert Baratheon through the tumult of the celebrating _cohors_, as he extended a hand up to the 'victor'.

The man looked down in confusion. He shook his head negatively.

"Then what bloody am I?" he challenged.

The reanimated others of the _contubernium_ gathered around their brother, above the King.

"_Fellator_?" he repeated stubbornly.

They all shook their heads no. Then the one with the broken arm said, "Hercules." The rest quickly nodded in agreement and reached down to his outstretched arm, calling out, "Hercules."

As the Stag got pulled to his feet, and surprisingly started to be affectionately pummeled on his wide chest, back, and shoulders, many in the _cohors_ took up a chant of "Hercules!"

The King's grin broadened even more as he shouted, "I don't know what it means Barristan, but I think I like it."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4 – Everyone Has Plans**

**Cassius (III)**

Cassius Lartius Mucianus, _Legatus_ of the _Legio Nona Hispana_, stood beside his senior quartermaster outside the temporary paddock created to hold the eight titanic horses of his new guests. Once it became evident that _Rex_ Robert's tour of the _castra_ would take awhile, the _Legatus_ convinced the retainers left behind to guard the monstrously large creatures, through repeated gestures and slowly spoken words, to move them to a place where they could be unsaddled, watered, fed, and groomed.

"Can you mimic the saddle shoes, _Armicustos_?"

"Yes, _Legatus_," came the clipped answer.

"Are you angry Brutus Pius?"

"No, sir. Yes, sir. I mean … its just … so …"

Cassius chuckled, "Obvious. Yes isn't it. My eyes near goggled watching it support the dismount of three hundred pounds of barbarian muscle and fat."

"Think of the leverage a man could bring with sword or spear! Oh, imagine _Legatus,_ how you and our lads from the old _Quarta Flavia Felix_ would have hammered those damned _Sarmatae_ allied to Decebalus."

"They led us a merry chase across _Dacia_, didn't they?"

"They did, though I don't recall at the time thinking it so jolly."

Cassius inadvertently flexed his left bicep, feeling the pull of the scar taken from the spear that _Sarmataen_ rider had gotten around the edge of his _scutum_. "How long to make saddle shoes for every horse?"

"Tonight I make five. Then we try them in the morning and figure out what I got wrong. After that …," the _Armicustos_ paused to calculate the number of horses among the _Legio_ and their auxiliaries against the number of metal workers, leather workers, and the required supplies he commanded. "Hhhmmmn, say two weeks."

Cassius raised an eyebrow.

"Alright. Less than that. Once the mongrel Gauls and Mauretanians get a whiff of this, every whoreson of them will be working on a pair for their own mounts," he grumbled.

Cassius nodded in agreement. "And what else does your trained eye tell us?"

The silver haired man scratched the back of his neck. "The leather and metalwork is damned good for savages; of course so was the Dacians if you remember, _Legatus_."

"Yes Brutus Pius, but even a dunghill chief might have a smith who can forge a decent sword or a tanner who makes supple leather. What does your gut say? Are we meeting people with the craftskill of _Dacia_ or _Caledonii_?"

The _Armicustos_ tentatively pursed his lips. "_Parthicum_, _Legatus_. _Parthicum_."

* * *

Hermann had only recently cleared away the remnants of the spare dinner Cassius provided to the _Tribunus_ and the _Primipilus_ when the guards announced the return of the _Tesserarius_, accompanied not by that grinning ox of a _Rex_, but by the hard lined face of Titus Sidonius, the _Pilus Posterior_. The two veterans saluted smartly upon entering the command tent.

The _Legatus_ returned the salute. "You are short a visitor, _Tesserarius_. I hope the Second _Cohors_ did no harm to our important guest?"

The _Pilus Posterior_ snorted in amusement. "Hardly. Hercules is having drinks with the lads. Seeing him happily soused in wine and trying to teach them some song he says is about a bear and a virgin, Publius Postumius and I thought it time to report."

"Hercules?" muttered Lucius Pomponius.

"The men of the Second _Cohors_ think it apt," replied Publius Postumius, "after the great lummox almost beat a _contubernium_ with only a shovel and a mattock."

Cassius raised his eyebrows to query the _Tesserarius'_ statement.

"A great warrior once no doubt," said Publius Postumius to answer the _Legatus'_ unspoken question.

"When his arse weren't so fat," interjected Titus Sidonius with a grin.

"But he seems another Junius Strabo to me," finished the _Tesserarius_.

The _Legatus_, the _Primipilus_, and the _Pilus Posterior_ all knowingly nodded their heads.

"The name is unfamiliar. Please tell me of the man," said the _Tribunus_.

"He died, oh, four years ago, Lucius Pomponius," Cassius answered. "Long before you came to _Britannia_ and the _Nona Hispana_. No man was stronger or fiercer in battle. But like the true son of Jupiter, this cross-eyed Hercules took little joy away from war. In garrison he whored, he gambled, he drank, he borrowed, and he fought. For every rank he valiantly earned on the battlefield, his failures at a soldier's everyday duties reduced him by two; 'till one final tavern brawl found him stabbed to death."

The _Tribunus_ now nodded his head too, the story matched well with what he had already briefly seen of the oafish _Rex_' character. "And to such we will pledge our swords?"

A predatory grin flared on Cassius's lips. "_Fortuna_, _Tribunus_. Think of it as pledging ourselves to _Fortuna_, for when was the last time the Sons of Rome lost a game of thrones to barbarians?" As those in the tent smiled at the implications, the _Legatus_ continued, "Titus Sidonius, please tell us what else you have learned."

"_Rex_ Hercules may be a buffoon, but the old General in the white cloak – he is dangerous; his eyes see everything and his hand remembers the feel of a sword. And it is not by sword alone they fight either, is it _Tesserarius_?"

"They fight by horse. Did you all see the straps for feet attached to their saddles?" asked Publius Postumius. When the others quickly nodded, he continued. "Not only do they use sword, axe, and hammer, but oversized _lancea_ too; ten or more _pedes_ in length."

The _Primipilus_ whistled. "That would outreach a _pilum_."

"And those elephants they call horses wear mail, making them harder for a _pilum_ to tickle," said Titus Sidonius.

"What of the men?" asked the _Legatus_. "The old warrior wore a breast plate."

"Those of the _Ordo Equestris_ wear plate armor over their whole body, with mail covering the joints."

"Impossible," sputtered the _Tribunus_. "The cost would be beyond reckoning."

"I do not think the old one would lie. It is not in his nature," said the _Tesserarius_; to which the _Pilus Posterior_ nodded in agreement.

"How many of the _Ordo Equestris_ does the _Rex_ command," Cassius asked quietly.

"In the battle where he won his crown through rebellion, and surprisingly the old warrior served the defeated _Rex_, he led an army of over thirty thousand. Perhaps five thousand were _Ordo Equestris_, ten thousand more like one of our own _alaris_, and twenty thousand of mixed _Cohors Millaria_."

"_Parthicum_," whispered Cassius.

"_Legatus_?" several of his commanders asked.

"The lands of this _Rex_ suddenly appear strong, yet he has interest in hiring us as auxiliaries. Why?"

"Hercules was impressed by the discipline of the lads," declared Titus Sidonius. "Never seen nothing like it before."

"If he likes discipline, let's give him some more tomorrow then," announced Aulus Vibius, the _Primipilus_. "How about the First _Cohors_ go up against your boys, Titus Sidonius?"

"That seems wise," agreed Cassius. "But we have much to learn about this place before I want to risk the _Legio_ in battle for these barbarians."

"Another thing, _Legatus_," spoke Publius Postumius. "This 'Westeros,' which they call their land, is large; mayhap as long as from Brundisium to the mouth of the Rhenus, and as wide as Gaul. And while the Hercules is _Rex_, he leads only one of seven great noble houses, and only directly rules two of the eight satrapies they have divided their land into."

Cassius perked up at this information. Despite the several superficial similarities between _Parthicum_ and this 'Westeros,' the _Legatus_ felt his confidence returning. Perhaps _Fortuna_ simply required them to work a bit harder since the prize now appeared so much greater than he first imagined.

* * *

**Lancel (I)**

"We're here!" shouted out Tracking Master Ronquin, loud enough even the end of the train carrying the King's hunting camp could hear. Lancel, ears still ringing, noted the trees were thinning. As he stood up in his stirrups to try and catch a view of the mysterious 'Sellsword Castle', Lancel winced, the blisters on his feet still raw and weeping. 'Damn you to the Stranger, you fat ox,' he thought. 'Abandoning me without a horse, so I must walk back in disgrace to camp and tell everyone the King is missing.' And for a full day all Lancel had heard were accusations of "You lost the King." That is until Ronquin had shown up with a tale fit for the Age of Heroes, and a royal command to pack up the camp and bring it to the now found fat ox. And so two days later they had arrived.

As he emerged from the forest onto a large field, he scoffed to himself. 'That's no castle. Five hundred red Lannister lances would charge through that like a sailor through a whorehouse.' The thunder of hooves snapped him back to attention. Four score riders, clad in leather and holding bows, charged around the far corner of the earthen wall 'til a horn sounded, and then, nearly as one, they pulled up, partly turned their horses, and stood in their saddles to fire a volley of arrows. A horn sounded again and the column of horse archers quickly resumed a fast trot that took them not a dozen yards in front of him and Ronquin.

Within seconds of the last row passing by, the familiar sound of that hated bass voice cut across the sound of hooves, "Lumpy! Here! Now!"

Following the sound of the imperious call, he spotted the King and Ser Selmy on horses by a gate in the short dirt wall, accompanied by a strangely dressed pair of sellswords. The strangers were also mounted and both wore visorless helms topped with some sort of big red brush or plumage. Immediately, both he and Ronquin turned and broke into a gallop so as to rapidly close with the thunderous boor, before he could find reason to yell at them again.

Heat rose in Lancel's cheeks when he realized one of the lowborn scum was riding his horse. The one he'd lost the morning three days ago when the King had absconded off with the might-have-been bandits.

"Took ya' long enough to bring my things, Lumpy," rumbled the King. "Take a wrong turn somewhere did you Ronquin, finding camp?"

"Your Grace," answered Lancel, bowing from his saddle.

"No your Grace," replied the Tracking Master. "Is it my fault, your Grace, that your servants are lazy, drunk, and stupid? They refused to work through the night I arrived. Had to debate things. Discuss whether I was a liar."

The King's eyes narrowed. "And my written command?" he asked with icy danger.

"Possibly forged, your Grace."

"Blast it Lumpy, you could have helped the man here," the King snarled.

"I … I was disgraced your Grace," Lancel interjected. "for losing you and Ser Selmy in the Kingswood. None would heed my word."

"Oh alright," said the King, granting begrudging acceptance to the explanation. "Ned Stark better well listen to this message if he knows what's good for him."

"Your Grace?" both Ronquin and Lancel questioned.

"This is Cassius," and the King jerked his thumb at the older sellsword to his left. "and this is Lucius. They command the _Legio Roma_ Company of sellswords. I'm hiring them and I need the Hand to sort out all the details. You, as my squire, need to get things moving."

"Yes, your Grace."

"Ser Barristan, give Lumpy the letter."

Ser Selmy lifted a flap on his saddle and pulled out a tightly rolled scroll, fastened by a blob of wax sealed with the King's signet ring, an emblem of a Stag, but not including a Lion as his proper Coat of Arms should show. Lancel accepted the message and tucked into his cloak. "What am I to tell the Small Council, your Grace?"

"Bugger the Council, tell Ned. He's the Hand. He'll get it done."

"But tell him what, your Grace?"

"Open your damn eyes Lannister, look around. These hard assed bastards haven't been here more than five days, and they've built all this." The King waved a hand at the man high wall of dirt behind him, bristling with wood stakes. "Westeros can use real men, who know how to sweat and work and fight, instead of puny armed things like you who'd rather listen to minstrels all day than learn how to swing a sword."

"Yes, your Grace," Lancel contritely replied, hoping that he had managed to keep any hint of hatred from his voice.

"There are near seven thousand of these swaggering cocks, so it will take a bit of work to arrange things for them in King's Landing. And what's more, the cagey sods want to make sure they aren't stepping in the shit by joining me," a notion that caused the fat oaf to chuckle to himself. "So tomorrow I'm leaving here with a cohort of them and marching to King's Landing so they can study the battlefield for themselves."

"Battlefield? And what's a cohort your Grace?"

"Are you dense?" shouted the King.

"If you will forgive the lad, he has just arrived and knows nothing of our new … friends," said Ser Selmy, kindly diverting the King's rising ire.

The Stag sighed heavily. "Five hundred men. Tell Ned I'm coming with _Tribunus_ Lucius and the five hundred men of the Second Cohort; Oh! And some others to act as translators. The boys here don't speak the common tongue, but a few of them know a bit of Free City speech. It's all there in the letter. We should be there in four days. Now off with you two," the King commanded.

Lancel shared a look with Ronquin. "May we take an escort, your Grace?"

"Of course you can! Why are you bothering to ask me? By the Seven, show some initiative, I'm not your damned mamie," the King roared with disgust. "Now get out of my sight! I see my son and others I'd rather speak to than the likes of you."

* * *

**Jeyne (I)**

Jeyne took the last two free loops of Sansa's long, auburn hair and quickly, deftly braided them together; all the while listening to the din through the window of the Lannister red cloaks drilling with swords in the yard below the Tower of the Hand. Her nimble hands didn't betray the nervous butterflies flitting about in her stomach. Only a fool like Moon Boy could fail to detect the tension of the past few days inside the Red Keep, and Vayon Poole's daughter did not consider herself a fool. Well, maybe a love struck fool, she sighed, the image of the perfect knight passing before her eyes.

"Are you dreaming of far away Lord Dondarrion again?" Sansa barked in a sharp voice at her best friend.

"Yes," Jeyne shyly replied.

"Well you are not the only one to lose your true love," Sansa said angrily. "It is very horrid of my father to drag me away from my sweet Joffrey, isn't it?"

"Yes, but what is to be done? We leave tonight," Jeyne pointed out practically.

"I will see the Queen!" said Sansa forcefully. "When she hears my plea she will think of something to convince father to keep us here, at least until the King returns. Then with both Joffrey and Queen Cersei to bend his ear, the King will command me to stay and marry his handsome, brave, son," Sansa spouted dramatically, as if to convince herself what she proposed must come true.

"But Sansa, rumor is the King has been kidnapped by bandits and your lord father has forbidden us the last two days to leave the Tower."

Sansa stomped her foot in frustration. "Think of something Jeyne. You must help me," her friend demanded petulantly.

Jeyne smiled at the inspired idea which popped into her head. "The godswood! We tell the guards we want to pray in the godswood before we depart on our journey."

"Hhmmmn, maybe that would work. But wouldn't we have to go with an escort?" Sansa asked skeptically.

"Yes, but only one or two. There are so few men from Winterfell left now in the Red Keep. So on our way, I pretend to slip and hurt myself. During the distraction you scurry off to the Queen. And I'll say I saw you continue on to the godswood."

Sansa squealed and jumped off her stool. "Oh Jeyne, that's brilliant! We'll do it. Now how do I look? I must go have breakfast with my father, Septa Mordane, and Arya."

Jeyne stepped back to take a look at her beautiful friend, dressed in all in drab grey travel clothes. "Pretty as ever Sansa. Your hair shines wonderfully against the green embroidery, but why don't you wear a silver necklace to add a little glitter too."

* * *

Torrhen and Small Dorren stood guard at the small gate to the Tower.

"Excuse me lady Sansa, Jeyne, you must stay inside the Tower," came the deep bass of Small Dorren.

"I remember the command of my lord father," Sansa answered. "But we intend to pray in the godswood."

Both men's faces soured at her words. "Sorry, my lady. We have our orders. Fat Tom would strip our hides if we let you out," said Torrhen.

"Oh please," begged Jeyne. "You know we leave tonight. We've never travelled by ship before. The Narrow Sea scares us."

"You want the old gods to watch over us don't you?" wheedled Sansa.

"Well …." hemmed Small Dorren.

"And we'll be taking the bones of poor Jory, and the others slain by the Kingslayer, back to Winterfell. You want them safely returned, don't you?" Sansa quickly added, noting how their resolve waivered.

"I don't really think …," started Torrhen.

"Lord Stark is sending at least ten guards with us. You might be on the ship too," struck Jeyne.

The two guards exchanged glances.

"One of you will come with us, of course," said Sansa, her tone reasonableness itself. "You can pray too."

"Alright," rumbled Small Dorren.

"I'll go with you," Torrhen promptly interjected. The smaller man stepped aside to allow the nearly grownup girls to pass through and then he dropped in right behind them as they headed for the copse of trees situated near the wall of the Red Keep overlooking the Blackwater Rush.

Not more than a minute out of direct line of sight from the Tower of the Hand, Jeyne's ankle turned and she crumpled to the ground, screaming in pain.

Torrhen leapt forward to crouch beside the fallen girl.

"My ankle, my ankle," Jeyne sobbed, head bobbing back and forth in 'extreme pain'.

Torrhen gently laid a hand on the girl's outstretched foot. Jeyne shrieked louder, all the while watching through the slits of her clenched eyes as Sansa snuck away.

* * *

Jeyne stopped in the middle of folding yet another dress when the door to Sansa's room swung open to reveal her friend and a stern faced guard, Varly.

"Please don't tell on Torrhen and Small Dorren to my father," pleaded Sansa.

"Torrhen was so helpful when I twisted my ankle," added Jeyne, pretending to limp as she stepped closer towards the door.

Varly's eyes narrowed.

"I only went to the godswood to pray," Sansa said sweetly.

"So you've already told me," the guard declared suspiciously, "Though there was no sign there when I came in search of you."

"I was already finished praying. Praying for a safe passage on this Braavos ship my lord father has hired. Praying for poor Jory's soul."

"And for brave Alyn as he chases after that horrible Mountain alongside sweet Lord Beric," piped in Jeyne.

"Oh yes," Sansa readily agreed. "Him and all the brave Winterfell men."

"Then where were you?"

"I stopped to watch a knight tilt his lance at one of the straw dummies."

"A Lannister no doubt," grumbled Varly.

"Not that I noticed," said Sansa. "There were some red cloaks practicing at swords, but the knight wore blue."

The guard scrunched up his face in thought, trying to remember which knights in blue were still currently in the Red Keep.

"Varly?" asked Jeyne, interrupting his musings.

"Yes."

"If Arya is done with her dancing lessons, and you see her. Please let her know I'll help her pack her chests if she needs any help."

The guard paused a moment, a long moment, clearly unsure what his next step ought to be. Finally, he nodded his head and replied, "Very well. Ladies." and stepped backward out the door, closing it in front of him.

The two girls held their breath, staring at each other, waiting for their hopes to be crushed by an overly diligent household guard. The moment lengthened, 'til both began to feel they had gotten away with their scheme.

"Well?" asked Jeyne anxiously.

Sansa's face lit up. "The Queen was sooooo understanding. She said she'd try to help me."

Jeyne giggled with glee, which started Sansa giggling too. The girls grabbed hands and started spinning themselves in circles till they fell on Sansa's bed together. As they regained their breath, Sansa leaned forward and whispered in her friend's ear. "But the Queen made me promise I'd tell no one we talked today."

"My lips are sealed," Jeyne answered.

* * *

Darkness had fallen several hours earlier. Jeyne had shared a very light meal with Sansa in her room, now much less cluttered since the earlier removal of all the packed bags and chests. Both girls were nervous and time seemed to drag on; they mostly kept their thoughts to themselves, waiting for any sign of Queen Cersei's promised intervention. Jeyne watched as Sansa fidgeted more and more, her face growing ever sulkier. The quiet jingle of a team of horses approaching the tower at a walk foretold their near departure even before the knock on the door by Cayn, one of Lord Stark's men, who had come to escort them from the tower one a last time.

They met with Arya and Septa Mordane in the stairwell. Arya too carried an air of resigned disappointment. Only the Septa tried to maintain a cheery mood. At the bottom of the stairs Jeyne's father, Vayon Poole, Lord Stark's Steward, gathered her up in a tight farewell hug. She embraced him back just as strongly, sniffling back tears. Once released from her father's arms, she stepped outside, to see that many of the twenty Stark household guards who would accompany them were already mounted and tTwo large carts were halfway loaded. Jeyne's father led her past the column of guards to a docile mare and helped her mount.

When all the men, except her father and Lord Stark, suddenly reached for the swords at their belts, the height of her horse gave Jeyne an excellent vantage point. At least a score of gold cloaks, some holding torches, marched from the vicinity of the bailey near the main gate toward them. They stopped a dozen yards away and the formation of the city watch parted to reveal the figure of a slender, short man.

"Baelish," Lord Stark's voice menacingly rasped out. "What do you do here?"

"I feared the hour might be perilous, my Lord Hand," came the answer with a slightly amused tone of voice as the dapper little man stepped forward to be better seen in what torch and moonlight lit the yard.

"How so," the lord snapped back.

Lord Baelish's eyes scanned back and forth at the assembled Stark might, such as it was, in King's Landing; pausing only once, to rest for a moment on Sansa. "Why else are you skulking in the middle of the night, my Lord? I am not the only one to realize that in the game of thrones, even the smallest of players," his eyes settling first on Arya and then on Sansa, "have value. Even considerable value."

"Which is why my children, of no concern to you, Lord Baelish, are returning to Winterfell."

"Tsk, tsk. But it _is_ my problem, you see." And as he spoke he slowly took small steps forward, bringing him closer to Lord Stark. "After all I did promise dear Cat I'd do my best to help you, and with only twenty of your household guards to escort sweet Sansa and young Arya to the _Wind Witch_, it appears to me you need all the help you can get."

"How did you discover this Baelish? Have you been spying on me?"

The glint of white off his teeth revealed his smile as he laughed. "Of course I have my Lord Hand. How better to know when to aid you. However the better question is if I know, who else knows?"

A grimace came across Lord Stark's face. "Varys," he declared.

"And if the spider knows, then who else surely knows?" spoke Lord Baelish as if talking to a child.

"Cersei."

"And thus I come with Allar Deem to offer you a score of his best gold cloaks to assist these stalwart northern lads of yours in getting your family," reaching out a hand to gently pat Sansa, already astride a horse, on the thigh, "safely to that galley from Braavos."

"And will you stay as my guest until word returns that the _Wind Witch_ has pulled away from the quay?" Lord Stark asked suspiciously.

"Certainly," he softly chuckled, "and Allar too. I hope your taste in wine runs to vintages from the Arbor. I am terribly thirsty for a fine golden." He rubbed his fingers together. "I am Master of the Coin after all."

* * *

The long procession, Winterfell men on horses and gold cloaks on foot, passed out of the Red Keep once Baelish's man Allar Deem gave orders for the portcullis of the outer bailey to be raised. The street leading down from Aegon's Hill seemed terribly desolate to Jeyne, though she acknowledged she had seldom been outside the Red Keep at night, and never so late. Near the base of the hill, the party veered to the left on to the Hook. Several blocks down all hands went to weapons as several men rushed out of a tavern, drunkenly yelling. After the first was dropped by a slap to the side of his head by the flat of a gold cloak's sword, the yelling increased, but the louts turned and ran back inside.

The Hook ended when it joined with Muddy Way, and only a short distance after that moved them into Fishmonger's square. Even at this hour a few merchants and workers were busy preparing for the morning, repairing their stalls, off loading new wares. Various scallywags, vandals, and churls skulked about, up to no good, but at the approach of the riders escorted by gold cloaks, all but the most foolhardy disappeared into the shadows.

The River Gate proved more difficult to pass through, as it was fully drawn shut. Gold cloaks shouted at their brethren to open it, which initially was ignored. Fat Tom, apparently placed in charge by Lord Stark, even threatened to come up and knock heads if the Lord Hand's orders were not carried out. Eventually some coin passed into the gatehouse achieved the desired result and the portcullis rose, but only after fifteen precious minutes had passed.

The party wound through the ramshackle Fishmarket, toward the docks. Finally a voice hailed, "The _Wind Witch_!" Jeyne felt her nerves, drawn tight by the long, secret night time journey, start to relax. In less than a minute she spied a ship, light shining on it from long torches mounted on the dock beside it. Then the first sounds of men dying reached her ears.

Two motley bunches of half armored wretches carrying swords and cudgels surged out from between shacks on either side of the fish smelling muddy road. Jeyne shrieked.

Cruel hands snatched the reins from her hand and reached up to tug her out of the saddle. A flashing blade caused a spray of blood to shoot across her and the hands fell away.

Men crowded in front of her, blocking her from Sansa and Arya.

A surge of three gold cloaks pushed in and swept the scum back. She dug in her spurs and the horse leapt forward toward the light, her friends, and the ship.

Her horse passed around one of the carts and Jeyne saw Septa Mordane slumped over, a hand axe buried in her chest.

Four or five men grabbed for Sansa and Arya. Suddenly a slender, long blade appeared in the young girl's hand and Jeyne watched the child stab one of her attackers in the face. A club whipped around and smacked Arya a glancing blow in the side of the head, staggering her, as her weapon dropped from her hand.

Without a thought, Jeyne again put spurs hard to her horse and drove it right at the man grabbing at Underfoot. Her mount sent the man sprawling and Jeyne reached out to stop Arya from sliding out of her saddle.

Fat Tom drove his sword into the back of one of the men clutching at Sansa. The other turned and crossed swords with the stout, older guard.

Shouts! Loud shouts! Jeyne spun her head and saw ten or so men charging down the dock toward the confused melee in the dark. "Sansa! The ship!" she screamed. All three horses lurched forward. Again Arya almost fell off, but both Jeyne and Sansa snatched at her, keeping her aright.

The sailors, carrying scimitars and spears, rushed past them. At the edge of the dock one large man, wearing mail, gripped their reins. "Sansa Stark? Arya Stark?" he demanded in a loud voice.

"Yes!" Jeyne yelled, so did Sansa. Arya only moaned.

"Come!" he commanded, yanking them one at a time off their horses and pushing them toward the boat. Welcoming hands helped them across the foul gap twixt dock and ship. Then a whistle blew. All three girls slumped down on the deck, crying. Soon they heard feet running down the dock and leaping onto the gunnels of the boat. In fear they looked up, but only saw the smiling faces of men dressed like sailors, some carrying bloodied weapons.

A faint sense of movement, the sound of water slapping on wood, thrummed up through the boat. "We're moving." Jeyne gasped.

"Safe," sighed Sansa.

The tall man in mail suddenly stood in front of them, bending down to get a better look at them in the dark. "Welcome aboard the _Wind Witch_. My name is …"

"Lothor Brune," answered Jeyne. "You defeated Jory Cassel at the Hand's Tourney."


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5 – A Road of Thorns**

**Polites (III)**

Polites sat nervously atop the roan horse requisitioned from the _Ala Milliaria_ of Gauls. He had ridden before, mostly on ponies and donkeys. Unpleasant experiences, swaying to and fro as the beasts moved; no proper saddle to help keep his arse in one spot, clutching so hard with his thighs to stay aright that they soon started to burn and cramp. This ride promised to be much less painful than all the others, what with an actual saddle and the new 'stirrups' all the rage with the auxiliary _Alarii_ and _Sagittari_. No, his anxiety rested mainly on where he was going and who he was going with, stuck in the middle of a _cohors_ waiting the signal to march out of the _castra_ and head off to the unknown of _Rex_ Hercules' King's Landing.

The _Buccinator's_ call lifted into the morning air, reflecting off nothing but blue sky above, till the sound of the stomping feet of the Second C_ohors_ drowned out the echo. Finally the horses in front of him started moving, carrying forward the _Rex_ and the _Tribunus_. He fumbled with his reins and tried to dig his heels into the side of the beast to get it moving, just like he'd seen the drunken, stinking Gauls do it a thousand times. The roan snorted and side stepped slightly. His sphincter involuntarily clenched as the strong, bared arm of the _Tesserarius_ reached over to snatch the reins and give them a tug. With the unexpected goading, the wretched horse immediately started to walk in the proper direction.

He glanced over to his right to see if Ser Selmy had seen any of his difficulties. The old man noticed, of course, and gave a polite smile, as well as a word of encouragement. "Don't worry Polites, by the time we reach King's Landing, you'll make a passable rider."

The next minutes flew in a blur as Polites adjusted, and readjusted his arse to the saddle and accustom himself to the gait of the horse. As the three in line horsemen approached the north gate of the _castra_, the sudden rise in noise finally drew his attention away from himself.

The rest of the _Legio_ and the various _Cohors Millaria_ made two straight lines extending from either side of the gate towards the edge of the forest. And at the sight of the _Rex_,immediately in front of Polites, emerging from the _castra_, a chant of Hercules broke forth from the ranks. Even the men marching in column behind Polites started shouting it. The big barbarian soaked it up and started waving as if he were some general of Caesar's returning to Roma in a Triumph; but one without a wise Greek slave at his side whispering in his, 'you are only mortal. all men die.'

The column came to a brief stop when the _Rex_ and the _Tribunus_ met the _Legatus_, who had stationed himself at the end of all his assembled _miles_. They all shook hands and wished each other well. No translation necessary by Polites. The last of the hard bargaining, at least until they reached King's Landing, had happened the night before in the commander's tent.

Polites shivered when the march resumed and the hawk-like eyes of Cassius Lartius Mucianus swooped past him. Oh the _Legatus_, in the presence of both the _Tesserarius_ and the _Tribunus_, had clearly explained, once the barbarians departed the tent last night, in no uncertain terms what he expected of Polites and ALL score of the Greek translators accompanying the Second _Cohors_. He shivered again remembering the last warning; punishment at the scarred hands of the dread Publius Postumius for dishonesty and crucifixion for all, if even one of his twenty assigned brethren deserted.

* * *

Normally Polites would rejoice at the lack of heavy physical duty at a camp construction, but not now. His arse chaffed from the day's long ride, and the damned old man wouldn't stop running all over the _castra_ rapidly rising among the trees for the night's encampment. Had the barbarian fool never seen men dig before? And questions, so many stupid questions by the _Rex_'s general that even the dimmest of the _Legio_ would know the answers by heart. But no, he was stuck as translator and must follow the old man or suffer words from the _Tesserarius_.

"Did the _cohors_ show off today by marching so far? Did each man carry only his normal pack? How wide and deep will the ditch be dug? Why not wider? Do we always march this far each day? Why not deeper? When complete will a horse be able to jump it? Do we always make a _castra_ each night? How high the wall? Have I ever seen one repel a horse charge? How wide a gap between the stakes? Where will the ballista and the scorpio be positioned? What if the ground is too rocky to dig? What is the best angle for a stake? Are the boundaries between each _centuria_ the weakest parts of the _castra_? Do we keep fires and torches ready at night near the walls? What if there is no water source nearby? Is the _castra_ built differently if enemy are near? How does each man know his specific duty in building the _castra_? Do construction duties ever rotate? How often are guards changed during the night? Do men sleep with their armor on? Has a _castra_ ever been overrun? How was it defeated? Do we draw lots to see when we shit?"

Polites dry throat and aches made him wish yet again he could have stayed with the _Rex_ near the tent of the _Tribunus_, helping the big man drink wine; or at least passing it to him.

* * *

**Lancel (II)**

Lancel and ten riders plodded up Aegon's Hill and passed between the towering bronze outer doors of the Red Keep. Perhaps noting the hint of Lannister red through his dusty cloak, the gate watch bobbed their heads in respect; tired, sore, and dirty from two days long travel through the Kingswood and along the Kingsroad, he felt nothing about him proudly proclaimed 'here rides the cousin to the Queen and squire to the King.' Even remounting after the ferry ride across the Blackwater Rush had been an aching struggle for his muscles; and yet, by arriving in King's Landing, his work had hardly begun. He nervously patted at the bulge in his tunic and contemplated his duty.

Once the last of his command entered the outer yard, he gave a shout. "Ronquin!" 'And damn the man for still looking somewhat fresh. "Take the men and stable the horses." He pointed vaguely to the left. "And find them something to eat in the barracks. Your duty is ended."

The Tracking Master of the Royal Hunt returned a lazy smile and briefly tugged an insolent forelock in acknowledgement.

Lancel tugged the reins and turned his borrowed sorrel to the right, towards the Small Council Hall. He dismounted and tied the mare up, while a couple of Northerners wearing cloaks of the Hand stared at him with hard eyes.

"Is the Lord Hand within?" Lancel asked with as much Lannister superiority as he could muster.

One of the men hawked and spat at his feet. Lancel's hand quickly rested upon his pommel at the slight.

"What's it to you Lannister?" the other growled dangerously at him.

He drew himself up straight. "I am the King's own squire and I have message from his Grace for his Hand."

"He's in," came the terse response. "I suppose you can go in too."

Ignoring the ill-bred louts, Lancel strode forcefully past them and entered. He occasionally grimaced as the infected blister on his foot rubbed against the boot leather with his every pace. Three hallways and two turns brought him to the council room. Ser Meryn Trant stood guard at the door.

"Lord Lannister," he spoke in acknowledgement. "Have you found the King yet?"

Heat immediately rose in Lancel's cheeks. "He was never lost," he snapped. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded and sealed parchment. "I have a message from my royal cousin for Lord Stark."

The knight of the Kingsguard smirked, but nevertheless stepped back from the door. Lancel tramped forward, rested his hand a moment on the handle while he mentally prepared himself, then opened the door and entered.

* * *

He immediately noted, to no surprise, what with the King, Ser Selmy, and Lord Renly back in the Kingswood; and apparently Lord Stannis still at Dragonstone, the sparse attendance of the Small Council. The cold blooded Stark, a thin bladed short sword lying before him, sat at the middle of the table with the Grand Maester and the eunuch to either side, and Littlefinger, a smug, sardonic look as usual upon his face, tilted casually back in a chair on the wing.

"My sweet Lord Lancel," purred the eunuch, the first to notice his entrance. "What word of the King? Such frightful rumors flutter about."

"Yes, Lannister, out with it! What of the King?!" Stark commanded in a tone that brooked no delay.

"Ahem … the King is well."

"The Seven be praised," called the Grand Maester.

"Where is he?" Stark demanded, rising with evident effort from his chair.

"A whorehouse?" Littlefinger japed. "I was unaware of any in the Kingswood, but if one awaited discovery, no doubt dear Robert could smell it out."

"The _King_," Stark emphasized.

"Most like already returning," Lancel answered, words that caused Stark to visibly relax. "Riding here with a band of marching sellswords."

"What?" exclaimed Stark in astonishment.

"Hhmn, the gossip wasn't all wrong after all, was it Varys?" Littlefinger pointed out.

"I have a message from the King for you my lord Hand. He gave it to me the day before yesterday."

Lancel strode up to the table and handed the sealed parchment across it to Stark. The man examined it briefly, checking that the King's sigil embedded in the wax; then tore a finger through the seal and opened the message.

"_Ned_," Stark read. "_I found a lost sellsword company in the Kingswood and I mean to hire the tough bastards, so find some money. There are seven thousand of them._"

Even Littlefinger sat up from his slouch as Stark announced that figure.

"Is this true?" Stark asked.

"More or less. I only briefly saw their … camp, and the size of it could well hold that many, my lord Hand," Lancel answered.

"Varys, how did such sized a company escape your attention?" accused the Grand Maester.

"I … I do not know," the eunuch replied with a tone more agitated than Lancel ever remembered from 'him.'

"Enough squawking," commanded Stark, giving a stern eye to the Small Council before returning to the parchment.

"_And before you ask, no I'm not drunk. Remember that when I tell you the next bit. None know how they arrived, they claim they just woke up here, and inside the best damn fieldworks I ever saw. They must come from the far side of the world, cause they speak no language any of us ever heard, though a few of them know Free Cities Valyrian._" Stark looked up from the message and stared daggers at Lancel. "This tale makes no sense. I would guess that King Robert was in his cups, but he avers differently. What do you know of it, Lannister?"

"Ahem, I was with his Grace when a group of these sellswords' scouts came upon the King while he hunted a boar. His Grace sent me in search of aid and I found Ser Selmy and several retainers, who I directed to succor the King. But when I returned to the site, all were gone; they'd even taken my horse," he admitted in a drooping voice.

"You left the King to possible bandits, and failed to take your horse with you," Stark scathed.

"Yes, my lord Hand."

"I'm sure it was a difficult situation. What did you do next my dear boy?" soothed the eunuch.

"I returned on foot to the Hunting Camp and gave the alarm. Ser Preston Greenfield directed scouts to search for the King and sent riders to return with Prince Joffrey, who had departed that morning with the Royces, Ser Swann, and others for King's Landing."

"Where is the Prince?" Littlefinger asked. "For he isn't here."

"He returned safely to the camp, with the Hound by his side," Lancel said. "And all the others who rode with him too."

"Continue," Stark commanded.

"Close to dusk the next day, the Tracking Master," began Lancel.

"Ronquin," added the overly knowledgeable eunuch.

"Yes, and another retainer, arrived with word from the King to pack up the Hunting Camp and return with them to an encampment of sellswords where his Grace was entertaining himself. There was much sharp debate into the night. Many voices, led by Prince Joffrey, wanted to leave immediately to rescue his Grace, but Lord Royce's words for a more caution approach won the discussion. So we packed in the morning and left by mid day; not reaching the King till the afternoon of the next day, that being two days ago."

"How did the King appear, you saw him. You must have, you carry his message," asked the Grand Maester.

"Well, though much wrought we did not arrive sooner. He rode a horse between two who appeared to be the leaders of the sellsword company. He promptly gave me this message and bade me return with it for my lord Hand. His Grace said he would leave yesterday for King's Landing with five hundred of them on foot."

"And that is all you know? A tad paltry on details." Littlefinger accused.

"The Tracking Master came with me, and told me much of what he saw."

"And …. ?" Littlefinger drawled.

"The King sparred a squad of them with only shovel, and then drank the night away with them."

Stark smiled. "That sounds like Robert."

"Quite," agreed Littlefinger. "Though a story light on women as far as the King is concerned."

"Pray, please continue reading his Grace's missive, my lord Hand," begged the Grand Maester.

"Yes," agreed the eunuch.

"Very well," responded Stark, casting his eyes back down at the parchment. "_But all in all good lads. The soldiers are salt of the earth and their General, Cassius, a fine companion. Being as dumfounded as myself by their magical appearance in the Kingswood, and never having heard of Westeros before, they are as shy of hiring on with me, as no doubt you Ned are of being commanded to hire them. So tomorrow I will leave with a cohort of theirs, about five hundred swords, and give them a bit of time in King's Landing to whet their appetites and their interest. Every soldier wants a chance at coin, wine, and quim! Have things ready for me Ned, and that's an order. I want these men! Their horse ain't worth shit, but they're the toughest foot I've ever seen, if a little under armored. As they'll be hiking it, expect me in four days. We'll talk then, and you can see for yourself why I'm hiring them. King Robert, House Baratheon, etc, etc._ Well, thoughts anyone?"

Littlefinger chuckled, "This will make the finding of the money for the Hand's Tournament seem like a mummer's trick by comparison. But if the King orders it, who am I, the mere Master of Coin, to gainsay him."

The Grand Maester cleared his throat, till he finally rattled, "I do not like the hint of Valyrian about these sellswords. It has the stench of Targaryens about it."

"Oh really Grand Maester," oozed the unctuous eunuch. "Aerys' children are beggars, living, at least for a little while longer, with the horse savages. How could they arrange, let alone pay, for the services of such a large sellsword company from the Dothraki Sea? And it seems to me his Grace has already charmed them with his knightly demeanor. A mystery no doubt, but perhaps a serendipitous one, wouldn't you agree, my lord Hand?"

Stark scowled at the mention of the Targaryen pretenders to the Iron Throne. "A mystery I think I dislike as much as the Grand Maester; and a command from his Grace I am none too happy about either. Though his return to King's Landing with only a small contingent of them seems the only smack of common sense about the thing. We have much now to discuss to prepare in ways both small and grand for Robert's return." Stark's eyes flashed to Lancel's face. "On behalf of the Small Council, I thank the King's squire for promptly delivering his message to his Hand. You may leave us now."

Lancel sketched a hasty bow, and exited the room.

"So they didn't ask me to deliver you to Traitor's Walk and the King's Justice, too bad," snickered Ser Meryn Trant, as Lancel passed by him on the way out of the Small Council's meeting room.

Lancel barely heard the insult. In his mind he had already begun to imagine the more pleasurable possibilities of where his duty, Lannister duty, now required him to go.

* * *

**Barristan (V)**

A strong breeze blew along the tunnel created by the cut of the Kingsroad through the tall oaks and elms of the Kingswood. The sturdy trunks and soaring branches provided walls and a roof that reduced sunlight overhead, but also helped to reverberate the sound from the regimented beat of cobbled Roman shoes upon the dirt, stone, and mud of the road. The sellswords, apparently by tradition, marched six abreast though the Kingsroad was wide enough to accommodate more. Nevertheless, the narrowness of their column did not slow the superior pace of the well organized ranks of foot soldiers, in no small part thanks to the relentless efforts of each Century's sergeant.

Ser Barristan's appreciative gaze passed between the mounted figures of the King and the Prince directly in front of him, and around the Hound in front of them to let his eyes wash over forty rows of martial glory moving together like one glorious, living armored beast. Soon he locked on to the symbol of the cohort, a spear in the front rank holding aloft an array of medallions topped by a gilded open palmed hand. The plumed helmet walking beside the Standard Bearer identified the veteran Centurion, Titus Sidonius, who each day refused the use of a horse in order to show the men of his cohort he shared each day's hardships with them.

The Lord Commander stifled a sigh of envy at such leadership. He shifted slightly, hoping to distract himself from the unending drivel spewed by the Stag. He noted the Watch Commander, Publius Postumius, on a horse beside him, and in the row behind Lord Renly and Tribune Lucius conversing with the occasional aid of Polites. Watch circuit complete, he returned his full attention to the King.

"… at that point I dropped my spear, and just in the nick of time too, else that brute, twenty stones of him, would have gutted me for sure," rumbled the Stag before he suddenly spat. "Granted that'd have made your mother shed tears … of joy as she sat the crown on your golden curls."

"Father," spoke Prince Joffrey in his usual petulant tone," I don't understand why you waste your time with these scum? Why not ride off ahead? We can be back at King's Landing by dark. Let Uncle Renly or old Ser Barristan baby sit them back to King's Landing."

"Listen child, any one of them is worth three of you, understand?" he commanded.

The prince rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. "I'd ride right through them smiting death down upon their heads," Joffrey answered arrogantly. "And my plate would turn their blows."

"Oh think you so, puppy boy?" the King laughed. "First they'd gut your horse, and if you were lucky enough not to be caught under the falling beast you'd be slow afoot in that pretty plate against three of them with those damned big shields and flickering blades; just meant for stabbing you in the crotch or armpit, any joint where mail is used instead of plate."

"My knights would rescue me. A lance charge drives all before it," the prince declared with the certainty of youth.

"Maybe so, maybe so. But do you know how I won at the Trident? Do you?"

In his head Ser Barristan imagined the intemperate scowl of derision the Prince would now be trying to hide from his sire.

"You killed Rhaegar the Raper in the Ruby Ford."

"NO!" the Stag howled. "Before that."

The wind began to flag as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard turned his attention to again scanning the edge of the woods, while he pictured the dumb look of confusion on Prince Joffrey's face.

"I … I …"

"The Northern foot, child. Did you think I'd send my horse across the ford first, only to be met at the water's edge by a Targaryen counter charge? I've told you the battle a hundred times …"

'A thousand,' Ser Barristan thought.

"… you'd think you'd remember," the King barked, before ordering, "What happened next Selmy?"

"Prince Rhaegar had his best foot, the Dornish spear, on his left. In the center he kept the remnants of Lord Connington's foot, which he feared might break, with his best knights."

"So when Ned's crazy boys went straight at him; he thought to chew them up before I could arrive to support'em, so the fool charged into the waters of the ford. In the shallows the Northerners were able to grapple with Rhaegar's knights and free riders. This denied them their speed and ability to maneuver."

Something tingled in the back of Ser Barristan's brain, but he couldn't place it. Too many memories of the Trident, the sound of metal on metal, the screams, the stench of death, jarred at him so hard he couldn't focus as sharply as his norm.

"The Umbers and Karstarks and Boltons and Glovers clung to Targaryen's horse like wolverines to a fresh kill. THAT boy, THAT, allowed me the chance to bring my own horse into the ford and join the battle on an even playing field. So don't EVER underestimated foot. They may not be pretty, but …"

The wind lulled. Ser Barristan's eyes narrowed. Movement. The trees. "Bow!" he roared, brutally driving spurs into his steed's flanks.

"… they … hunh?" questioned the Stag.

Two arrows lanced out of the Kingswood. The Lord Commander in a blur of white placed himself athwart their trajectory. He thrust a plated arm forward, then grunted as one arrow hit into his body plate only to ricochet away and a micro-second later the second glanced off his raised gauntlet to plunge into the shoulder of the King's mount.

A mere moment later he snatched a glimpse of Publius Postumius yanking both the King and Prince Joffrey off their horses.

"Unhand meeeee!" squeaked Prince Joffrey as he tumbled backward to the ground.

The Lord Commander immediately launched himself from his own steed and fell body length across his sovereign. An arrow promptly thunked into the King's saddle and another passed over the horses at the height of a rider's chest.

Hooves beat as several of the King's company quickly reacted and charged toward the leafy cover hiding the assassins. The Romans in near unison reacted to the sudden threat by stopping their march, pivoting, and kneeling behind their oversized shields.

The King's stallion neighed at the pain of its injuries, tossed its head, and broke away from the roadway to start galloping into the woods. Prince Joffrey's well trained hunter, uninjured, simply stood in place.

Publius Postumius, from his place smothered over the prince, yelled something in his stuffy language. Several squads of Romans immediately leapt up at the command and moved to place themselves, and more importantly their shields, between the King and the woods.

"Get off me Selmy, damn your hide," protested the King.

"No, your Grace, better to stay down; the curs might be using poisoned arrows. Others have gone after the cowardly dogs, you will be safe soon enough."

"Father," whimpered the prince.

"Stop sniveling boy. This is the price for being King. Think it a part of your tutoring."

Two high pitched shrieks, near atop each other, rung out from the woods. Ser Selmy eased himself off the Stag, stood, and peered over the row of Roman sentries into the trees. Soon several horses came trotting out from between dark trunks: the Hound, Bronze Yohn and his son Robar, Ser Balon Swann, and Alek Roone.

"Where are they?" the Lord Commander called out.

"Dead," the Hound answered with a smirk.

Behind his typically blank façade, Barristan Selmy wondered, 'but who were they and more importantly who sent them?'


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6 – Red Cloaked Discomfort**

**Lancel (III)**

Lancel exited the Small Council's hall to find Tyrek and several Lannister household guards angrily staring off against Stark's northern stooge doormen. "Cousin," he acknowledged, striding between the two guard's wearing grey cloaks adorned with a white emblem of the Hand to join the safety of the small group clad in familiar red, where one of the men-at-arms already held the reins of his horse.

"Cousin," Tyrek coolly responded, as he pivoted to walk beside Lancel. He then leaned over to whisper, "Word of your return has reached Maegor's Hold. You are expected."

"Cersei," Lancel sighed softly, understanding the command.

"The _Queen_," and Tyrek hardened his tone as he spoke Cersei's title, "deigns to hear the latest news on the health of her husband, the King, and her son, the Prince."

Lancel reddened, remembering the not quite vague, shameful instructions given him by the unreachable golden lady of his dreams barely a fortnight earlier. He hoped the dust and grime of the road hid the heat from the pleasure, agony, and guilt suddenly surging within him as he thought of her. "Yes, certainly," he murmured, trying to gather himself. "So, tell me cuz, what is the news of King's Landing. What gossip and scandal have I missed these last two weeks."

His cousin scowled at the question, looking around the outer yard as they continued walking toward the portcullis for the middle bailey. "The Winterfell bastards blame us for the attack two nights anon."

"A battle here? In the Red Keep?" he gushed.

"No, by the docks. Sellsword scum ambushed the daughters of the Hand as they snuck to a ship."

"Were they killed? Injured?" The image of the fetching auburn haired Sansa flashed in his mind's eye.

"The younger may have been wounded," Tyrek answered.

Lancel whistled as he drudged up a vague likeness of some horse-faced tomboy. "This must end the Stark girl's engagement to Joffrey. What happened to them?"

"The ungrateful bitches made a Braavos ship thanks to some of her sailors. Many of the Northerners and gold cloaks escorting them though were killed or wounded. Stop a moment, Lancel," Tyrek said, coming to a halt. "Go grab what gear you need. Deron will take this shabby nag to the stable. What happened to that dark bay of yours?"

Lancel gritted his teeth while he unstrapped his saddlebag, glad none could see the shame on his face as he said, "The King gifted her to the commander of the sellsword company he came upon."

Tyrek grunted at the news. "So that rumor was true. And the King returns?"

Lancel turned back and nodded a 'yes' to the question.

"Hand your bag over, I'll carry it; you look a tad worn," offered the slender Tyrek. Lancel gladly accepted his younger cousin's offer. The group resumed marching and soon passed through the wall, guarded by gold cloaks, and into the middle bailey.

Lancel jerked his head back toward the watch. "They were helping the Stark's brats. Are they now in the Hand's pay?"

"No, only some I think. Word is those that night were Allar Deem's men. He's even more gold grubbing than Janos Slynt."

From the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, a few more of Stark's Northerners glared across the bailey at them as they made their way to the Dragontail Stair that led up to Maegor's Holdfast.

"So they blame us for the attack on their precious chits," posed Lancel. "Have there been any fights?"

"Some fists, but no steel … yet," Tyrek replied, with venom in his voice. "Stark has few bannermen left in King's Landing, so the cowards are staying close to the Hand's Tower for now. We've watched which lords' men are now helping them, and we shan't forget it."

"A Lanister …," started Lancel.

"… always pays his debts," both Lancel and Tyrek finished.

* * *

Mandon Moore stood guard by the door of the Royal Apartments, but stepped aside to let the two Lannister cousins pass without hindrance. A steward waited within and led them to the Queen's bedchamber. At a knock, a sweet brunette Lady in Waiting, some eligible cadet daughter from House Swyft, opened the door and bobbed her head at the two squires. "You are expected Lord Lancel. Please enter."

As he stepped through the door, he felt a rush of air as the maiden interposed herself between the cousins.

"What? Here now!" barked Tyrek, adolescent voice losing any authority by cracking.

"Please forgive me valiant Lord Tyrek, but her Grace deigns to interview Lord Lancel alone," the woman, only a few years older than his cousin, sweetly replied. "Come, let me entertain you while we wait the Queen's pleasure."

"Hhmph!" he snorted, but still, he took a step back.

Lancel, now within, tried not to gaze at the big, soft feather bed dominating the room.

"Fyshor, leave us," came the seductive, commanding voice that tormented his dreams. A smarmy, dark skinned Myrman trader bustled out from the recesses of the bedchamber, sketching Lancel a bow as he passed.

"Come sit with me Lancel." He entered the alcove, a large cushioned chair sat facing a window. Bolts of thick, plush velvet unwound out of the seat. He walked around the chair. Buried beneath the cloth sat his golden haired goddess. He dropped to a knee, head bowed.

"Your Grace," he uttered, tongue swelling within his parched mouth, making it difficult to speak.

"Help me rise cousin, I appear trapped," the dulcet voice commanded.

"Of course!" He leapt to his feet and started throwing aside the merchant's wares without a care for where they landed until only her low cut gown lay between him and her.

Cersei giggled and held out her hands. "My savior."

Lancel's heart fluttered. He wrapped his hands around her slender wrists and pulled her out of the chair. Standing, she leaned forward and gave him a hug. He felt himself grow turgid as her sweet breasts pressed against his chest. Cersei kissed his cheek in greeting, then he heard her take a long breath of him. Nervous perspiration burst forth all over him, he knew she must feel his swollen member pressing against her taut belly.

"Ehhmm, you smell so good, Lancel, musky, vibrant, manly; not like that fat, sweaty boar Robert," she whispered in his ear. He knew it wrong, but his eyes fluttered as he thought he might spend himself right there. Then Cersei stepped back and asked with disdain, "and how is the King?"

"Alive. Healthy. Returning to King's Landing," croaked Lancel drily, though all the rest of him dripped wetness, even his engorged cock.

Cersei spun away from him. "Lovely," bitterly ground out from her beautiful, succulent lips. "And when might I see my esteemed husband?"

"He meant to leave yesterday, but intended to ride beside some of the sellsword foot he discovered …"

"Yes," the Queen interrupted, her back and tightly curved bottom still facing him, "a mystery you must tell me more of later. And Joffrey rides with them too?

"Yes my Queen."

"So …?"

"I would expect them here in two more days, my lady."

"Very well," and she began to pace and turn in dramatic swirls, gown swishing, bosom heaving, delicate fingers strumming off each other; a mesmerizing vision. "Time enough I suppose." She suddenly stopped, quirking her head to gaze directly at him, brilliant green eyes burning right into his heart.

"I am yours Cersei," he whispered to her, entranced, ensorcelled, maddened.

A corner of a luscious red lip curled into a brief smile. "Good. Lannisters protect each other, don't we Lancel?"

He nodded dumbly in agreement. He could still faintly detect the scent she left on him in their too brief embrace.

"So you must return to the King."

"Hunh? What?" he stuttered, stunned by her unexpected order.

"You and Tyrek both, you are his squires. Yes, none would suspect. Your places are by the bloated Stag's side."

"Suspect what?" Lancel asked, confused.

"A message. The Hand threatens me cousin. He speaks vile lies and promises to spread them to Robert."

"The dog," Lancel snapped in righteous anger.

"And he threatens poor Joffrey. Casterly Rock too. We all know he's already kidnapped the Imp. We must get … word out. He will listen, and he will act!" Cersei swore heatedly.

"Wha .. when should we leave?"

"At first light tomorrow. Take Vylaar, and twenty red cloaks with you. There may be danger on the road. I will send two pages to you in the stables. They will bear messages; one for you, and one to deliver. Take the pages with you as well, you will have need of them." As the Queen spoke, her voice became more and more animated. She stepped closer and closer to him, till she rested her hands on his arms, staring deeply into him, weighing his soul; seeing his total devotion to her. "Can you do this for me sweet cousin?" she pleaded softly.

"Always," Lancel whispered, leaning forward to touch those lips, till Cersei abruptly spun away while still taking a hand of his, tugging at it.

"Come, tell me of this magical band of cutpurses and murderers my _darling_ husband miraculously stumbled upon. It smells too much of intrigue. But whose plot? And whom do they mean to snare with it? Perhaps your telling may reveal a clue." The Queen led Lancel to a chair which she gently pushed him into. When she turned to make her own seat, he quickly adjusted himself to keep his clothes from chaffing and pinching so painfully at his agonizing tumescence.

* * *

**Joffrey (I)**

The vinegar piss these '_Romans'_ called a watered wine clutched hard in his craw, so he threw his goblet disgustedly to the dirt. Joffrey yearned to be back at the Holdfast, downing a fine golden while his grovelers bantered about to amuse him. Few of his set had come, blast them, thanks to his father's haste in giving chase to the white stag, only wolf meat now. And the prince found those of his companions left him the last two week's irksome beyond all patience. Hunting made fine diversion for a day or two, if the prey were plentiful, he decided, but soon turned to something like work; hot, sweaty, tiring, and dull.

With bored eyes the Prince looked around the exceedingly tight, completely unbefitting space granted the King's party within the busybody foreigner's earthen paddock. Joffrey smiled to himself as he derided his hosts in his mind, 'What sheep they are to need to be safely penned away at night.' He next imagined to himself what it would look like to have several of the sellsword scum skewered on a true knight's lance, his lance. The smile quickly faded to a scowl as the damned minstrel began the second verse of _Fifty Four Tuns._ 'This must be the hundredth time I've heard this,' he whined. 'Why play it? My blasted father isn't even here to add his drunken bass to the interminable chorus of his favorite song.' Joffrey ground his teeth at the tedious tavern jingle, but forced himself to hold his peace since both Royces and some of the other Sers present were stamping their feet in beat to the peasant song.

He stood up, staggering a bit. He must escape the noise before it drove him crazy. The Stag was out wandering amongst the coin grubbing foot soldiers. 'Why shouldn't I take a princely stroll and impress them too,' he thought.

He waggled his tongue in his mouth, trying to remove the heavy film of wine piss choking his palate. Then Joffrey remembered that skin of wine he'd filched out of Lancel's stash several days earlier. He'd only drunk half of it, a sour red from Dorne, but it left a warm feeling in the belly. He stumbled into his small tent and rummaged about till finding it under a bundle of dirty clothes. He took a long draught. "Ahhh." Almost immediately a pleasant warmth churned in his belly.

Standing back up in the light of the camp fire, Joffrey spotted the familiar scarred visage staring at him through the flickering illumination. Over the sound of the dreadful tune, he shouted, "Come Hound. I wish to walk among my new bannermen." Without looking, the Prince strode out of the small enclave of Westerosi into the realm of Romans.

Though none watched him, the large, heavily muscled man paused just long enough to prove his insolence before standing and following his ward.

* * *

Joffrey paused in his stroll to tilt back the wineskin. He wiped the side of his mouth as some leaked out. All of the sellswords he'd passed in the well defined lanes between their eight man tents nodded a greeting at him as they passed; including a small number who said their foreign tongued 'hello' of "Ave." But most had neared smirked at him and a couple even chuckled. The Prince thought hard on the reason to no avail. He checked his trousers to see if his member accidentally hung in the night breeze. No. His brain told him to drink more wine. So he did. Still something nagged at him and he wondered if he should feel insulted.

"Hound? They do not give me my proper respect, do they?"

"No," came the bored response from the dark behind him.

He knew it. He was being insulted. His mother was right, always look for slights, for if you look hard enough you will see them, and then pay your debt like a Lannister should. "Why?"

"The way you cried after you fell off your horse."

Joffrey stomped his foot. "I did not fall, the bastard pulled me. And I certainly did not cry!" 'Great Knights are feared, not mocked,' he told himself, feeling very dangerous and strong.

"As you wish," Clegane answered with a condescending tone, further infuriating the Prince by its implication he might actually have done something to embarrass himself.

"Piss on your wishes Hound. And piss on them," Joffrey barked.

A shout of "_Sileo_!" came from the nearest tent.

Anger flared in Joffrey's eyes and he turned toward where the yell came from. "Don't tell me what to do in your jibber-jabber! I will piss on you, you low born scum!" his adolescent voice screeched. The Prince fumbled at his trousers, loosening the belt, yanking them low enough so he could grasp himself. A wine powered stream of yellow gold sprayed on the closest tent. Joffrey and the Hound laughed while to see several bodies roll out, angrily yelling in their strange tongue, from beneath the target of royal ire.

Joffrey lost his grip as the first man to stand shoved him hard, causing the spray to start wetting his own pants as much as anything else. Sandor Clegane unwound a boot that drove into the man's gut causing him to crumple into another tent. The man's comrades immediately crouched into brawling positions.

"Kill them Dog! Kill them!" Joffrey bawled, terror and blood lust filling his voice.

The Hound responded to the threat by partially pulling his thick blade from its scabbard, causing the scared peasants to stay in place. But Clegane's confident sneer dimmed as more Romans rolled out from nearby tents to see what the commotion was.

The Prince felt a strong hand grab his shoulder. "Come boy, I don't feel like killing so many insects tonight."

* * *

After their hasty departure, the Hound had soon grown disinterested in wandering the sellsword stable, leaving Joffrey with only his near empty wineskin for company. The corner of the jumped up scoundrels camp he now approached was better lit, more populated, and louder than any part he'd seen since leaving his own fire. Men gathered around in a circle, shouting out encouragement to some action in their center they watched. The Prince wondered if some martial activity drew the cheers, perhaps wrestling or a boxing match. He decided his fiery blood might be cooled by watching some wretch get injured, so he wiggled between the taller spectators to gain a view of the sport.

Joffrey saw two men dressed in cloaks pluck miniature bows no larger than a child's harp and fire dull ended wooden darts. He could not see the fool who must be the target of the abuse, but he could hear the buffoon baaing like a sheep and mewling like a coward. He joined the chuckles of derision as he angled around the peasant in front of him in order to catch a view of the deserving dunce. A man in a fine silk cloak crouched on all fours quivering in mock fear at the bolts landing near him. A top his head perched an overturned pot, sitting jauntily like a crown. Sticking out from beneath the pot was a wig of golden straw. Joffrey stopped laughing. His stomach surged in his belly. The fool was meant to be him.

"Stop it! Stop it!" the Prince shrieked shrilly, running into the firelight and kicking the creature who crawled on all four's to imitate a whimpering dog; a mockery of himself. As the man rolled in the dirt, Joffrey jerked out his dagger and spun around, showing the blade to all the gawkers gathered about. The other mummers participating in the scorn filled skit started to fire their blunted arrows at him.

"No one treats me that way!" he screamed. He staggered as he chased after the retreating swirl of maddening figures taunting him. He felt dizzy from the strength filling him with courage and daring him to render justice on the wicked. "I am the Stag!"

As he darted toward a group, the sea of people parted, and an ogre glowered down at him.

"No boy, I am _the_ Stag," the monster's voice rumbled.

His arm holding the dagger turned toward the movement coming in from the outer edge of his vision. Then an enormous antler smashed into the side of his head.

* * *

He heard 'slap, slap, slap' sounds. All around was darkness. He felt a tingling come and go on his cheek. It stung. Something made him think all three sensations related to each other. A drumbeat of sounds now started to reverberate in his skull. He realized his head ached too.

"Wake up boy, wake up. Wake up boy, wake up. Wake up boy, wake up." Slap, slap, slap.

Joffrey opened his eyes to see an ugly, jowly, sweaty face staring at him.

"There you are. Now you're awake I ought to knock you out again. Have you the brains of a donkey?"

The King, his father, swam in and out of focus. Joffrey felt the putrid taste of bile in his mouth and a rumbling in his belly.

"I … ahhh …" He tried to sit up, but swooned. A strong hand grabbed the back of his head and yanked him upright.

"Here, this'll help clear your numbskull."

The nozzle of a wineskin plopped between his lips. His jaw hurt as he suckled the Arbor vintage.

"Better?" his father asked gruffly.

Joffrey tilted his head slowly in a nod of agreement. Still, the slow movement caused the earth to spin beneath him.

"Now you might have noticed there are more of them than there are of us. And I want these men, Joffrey.

"They are just sellsword scum," the Prince protested in a weak, but scornful voice.

"No, I know warriors. These men are more than that. Strong and skilled, but honorable too. And here they are lost, alone, without lands, coin, or woman. I can give them these things, indebt them to me; make the throne strong, never again to need a Tyrell or a Lannister, or need to hear the chirping of the Stormlords. Your flashing a blade in their faces makes my work harder. Behave!" The last word was emphasized with a cuff to the back of Joffrey's head.

Pain exploded in him, causing the Prince to lash out at his father. "Stop hitting me! Mother said you were to never do that again! Stop it! Stop it!" he wailed.

Large hands grabbed him and shook him, making the world spin even faster. "Be a man, not some pampered flower!" the Stag snarled. "Real life is hard and nasty, like these Romans; not the fake, hollow pretty place Cersei hides you in at the keep. So behave I say, or you'll get more of my hand."

"Father … they laughed at me!" the Prince whined angrily for his wounded pride.

"Be glad that's all they did. They kill for a living. And if these scum laugh at you, remember they laugh at themselves harder. You should give it a try, instead of acting the pissy prince all the time. Well? Can you?"

Joffrey moved his jaws, but no sound other than hollow gasps of air emerged.

"Stop gaping! Out with it!"

YACK!

The King hopped back from the vomit spewing out of Joffrey's mouth. "Gods be damned!" he roared, shaking puke off his sleeves. "How can a son of mine not hold his wine!"

* * *

**Lancel (IV)**

Vylarr stalked among the troop of the Queen's household guard gathered inside the stable, checking and double checking the readiness of each mount and each rider's gear in the pre-dawn hour. He spared no son of the Westerlands, not even Tyrek Lannister, from pointed criticism. The night before, the jumped up from small folk captain resisted the notion of leaving the Red Keep beyond all seemliness; only begrudgingly sliding into acquiescence when Lancel revealed the command to return himself, and his fellow squire and cousin, to the King originated with the Queen. Listening to the upstart berate the other members of the escort, clearly the man still harbored resentment towards the orders from his betters. Lancel vowed to one day reveal this minion's obstinacy to Father and Uncle Tywin; undoubtedly returning the ingrate to the true station of his birth, the lowest drinkshops of Lannisport.

The young man's musings ended at the approach of the two pages, both cloaked and hooded against the morning's chill, Cersei had told him would bring her secret messages. The taller of the slight youths stuck out a hand, holding two sealed envelopes. Lancel quickly snatched them up, clutching them to his chest.

He peeled one back, tilting his narrow chin down to peer through the dim torch light at the folded parchment. 'Casterly Rock? Why is one addressed there?' he wondered. 'We're to head to the Kingswood to rejoin the King.' Lancel had a sinking feeling something wasn't right. He looked over at the two pages, placidly standing around him, intruding on his disquiet.

"You're supposed to accompany me, aren't you?" he snapped.

Two red hoods nodded in agreement.

"Go find your horses. Captain Vylarr should already have them saddled for you," he commanded.

The two pages giggled at him, but otherwise simply stood stupidly in place. Lancel's cheeks bloomed pink at the impertinence. "Show your faces!"

Two smiling faces, one plump, the other delicate, both framed by close cropped black hair, looked up at him. He quirked his head to the side, not understanding the familiar faces staring back at him.

"Hi Lancel," the taller youth said in a girlish voice.

Lancel's stomach heaved. The acid taste of bile swirled bitterly in his mouth. "Hoods up!" he urgently hissed in a whisper. "What in Seven Hells are you doing here?!"

"Mother -"

"Quietly!"

"- said we were to take a surprise trip with you. She dyed our hair as part of the game. She said the note would explain everything," the older of the two declared excitedly.

His eyes swung back and forth to see if any were paying them heed. Luckily the two '_pages'_ appearance seemed to have only garnered a modicum of notice so far. Then he pulled up the second parchment. 'Lancel – Tyrek,' it announced in crimson letters. "Alright, let me read it. Stay here, and shhhhh, no talking." His finger slid under the sealed fold, popping the missive open. He unfolded it.

'_Dearest Cousins, the Hand, with his lies and bewitchment of the King, seeks to unthrone me and declare my children bastards. He threatened me so a mere week ago. I fear for the lives of my lovely little ones. You must save them. Take them to Casterly Rock and my father. I am only a woman, but I will gladly face the wrath of the Stag knowing I can entrust the protection of my precious babies to my two brave Lannister Sers. Pray for me. Pray for Joffrey. Your Queen, Cersei._'

'The King has always loved this Stark more than even his own brothers,' Lancel thought, knees knocking. 'Its over three hundred leagues to Casterly Rock. How can I?' He looked back down at the parchment. A whiff of Cersei's perfume reached his nose through the stable's stench of straw and piss and dung. 'If Cersei is so valliant, surely I am strong enough to do what she asks,' he tried to convince himself.

"Tyrek! Vylarr! Come here!" he shouted before his resolved crumpled. "Keep those hoods up," he spoke softly, but fiercely.

"Yes m'Lord?"

"I see the pages we expected finally arrived with Cersei's notes, eh cuz."

"Erm, ahh, Tommen, Myrcella, say hello to your cousin and the captain," Lancel whispered. One hooded figure dropped a curtsey and the other sketched a bow.

"Others take me!" Vylarr swore.

"What?" Tyrek muttered in confusion.

"No, no, stand up Myrcella," Lancel whined. "Don't curtsey; remember, you're a page." He thrust Cersei's note at his cousin. "Read it, Tyrek. Read it!"

His cousin scanned the short note quickly. "Cersei wants us to take them all the way to Casterly Rock?!"

Lancel waived the other message, still sealed. "And this one must be for Uncle Tywin."

"What do we do?" Tyrek asked, doubt filling his voice.

The cousins shook with surprise as Vylarr's voice suddenly roared down the length of the stable. "MOUNT UP! Get on your damn horses and form up in the yard a'for my boot kicks your ugly arses!" The man then turned back to them. "This be treason to the King; make no mistake about it young Sers. But I were born a Lannister man and I'll die a Lannister man before I'd betray my oath. We go out the Mud Gate like planned, but then we make for the Goldroad. Stay close to the chits, no knowing what spies and assassins Stark has lurking about. If the chits can stand the pace, we'll make the Westerlands in twenty days; another ten after that to the Rock. I pray they can, cause in no more than two days ravens will be flying out with word of our escape. If you've the stomach for this, we leave in five minutes."

As the captain of the guard turned to leave, he bent down to Tommen and Myrcella. "My prince, my princess, we'll make soldiers of ya'yet," he said in a gruffly reassuring voice.

Lancel saw that Tyrek's face was likely as ashen as his own. "Cersei trusts us. Do we …?" he asked hesitantly.

His cousin nodded weakly, then gulped. "A Lannister always pays his debts."


End file.
